Chapter Text
When Harry Potter was eleven, the sight of owls signalled something new and exciting and filled him with ceaseless wonder. For years after his first owl delivery at Number Four Privet Drive, Harry marvelled at the creatures, admiring as they flew in and out the Great Hall, caring for his own better than he'd ever cared for anything.
At seventeen-years-old, Harry Potter had the inescapable notion that if he saw one more owl he would get violently sick.
The sky was a light, faded blue today, clouds stretched thin to the point of near-transparency. And there, in the top right corner of the sky, Harry spotted the grey shape, wings spread wide with purpose. He closed his eyes, picturing the sight of mingled grey and blue feathers coming into sharper detail as it neared him. He ignored the thump of a landing that came from somewhere to his right. When he felt a small but sharp beak peck at his skin, all he said was, "I'm not expecting any owls," with his eyes still closed.
He waited for the bird to peck him a second time before he opened his eyes with a defeated sigh. The owl held out its leg and motioned with its head for Harry to get on with it. Stifling back a glare, Harry untied the envelope attached to the spindly leg. "I assume they paid you already?" he asked.
The owl's answer came in the form of a high-pitched hoot and it took off immediately, seemingly uninstructed to wait for a response. That was a small mercy. Harry had lost track of how many owls he'd had to bribe to leave empty-handed.
He considered staying out on the porch seat for a while longer, but his brief moment of peace had been ruined. Steeling his nerves, Harry walked through the door back into the Burrow. The despair and grief continued to drown out the usual brightness of the house, and the question of whether it would ever get better hung unspoken from the ceilings.
It wasn't that Harry wanted to leave. He loved the Burrow. He loved the people who lived at the Burrow. But his reasons for staying seemed weaker and weaker every day. Not to mention the restlessness – god, the restlessness. It honestly rivalled what he felt during the hunt for horcruxes, those long weeks where they spent each night somewhere different but made no movement where it counted most.
It was like that now. For the last week and a half, Harry had been waking up and getting dressed to go somewhere new, attend some other service for someone he may or may not know. But what was he doing? Nothing. Nothing worthwhile. It seemed to Harry that very few things could be considered worthwhile anymore.
The increasingly depressing thoughts accompanied him up five flights of stairs, to the doorway of the room he and Ron shared. The sight of both his best mates talking rather close to each other greeted him.
"Oh," Harry said, having already loudly stumbled through the doorway. "Sorry. I'll just-"
"No, Harry!" Hermione called, jumping away from Ron. "It's okay, come back in."
He knew she was only trying to be polite, but he really wished she wouldn't. It only made him feel like more of a charity case. Poor Harry: no parents, no home, no plan, and now, no girlfriend.
"It's all right," he told her, awkwardly holding up the letter. "Just came to add another one to the pile."
She held out her hand instantly; if Harry tried, he could imagine she was waiting for him to hand over his potions essay for her to check over. He took comfort in the image and gave her the envelope.
Wordlessly Hermione opened it and read, brows sinking lower and lower on her face as she went on.
"Trash," she announced when she finished, passing it back to him.
"Who was it?" he asked, glancing down at the parchment to see the answer for himself. "Ah."
"Who?" Ron, who still hadn't seen the letter, asked.
"Skeeter," Harry informed him simply, screwing his face up even more than Hermione had as he scanned the parchment.
Dearest Harry,
It's been quite a while since I last heard from you. I certainly hope all is well and you are enjoying your well-deserved time off. Give the Weasleys all my love! It is the Weasleys who have graciously decided to take you in and care for you as their own, isn't it? Would you go so far as to say that your presence has helped fill the loss of their now-late son – may he rest in peace – Fred? I daresay I hope you don't feel obligated to remain there because of that! I understand your muggle family have not been heard of since the Battle – how that must distress you – but you must know there are countless witches and wizards who would be honoured to offer their assistance in any way. Myself included, of course!
Speaking of assisting, I do feel it is my duty to inform you, Harry – and, oh, I regret it so – that there have been continued whisperings of your on-again-off-again girlfriend, Miss Granger. I have been told from more-than-a-few inside sources that she harbours a secret burning desire for the youngest Weasley boy who tags alongside you from time to time. It isn't easy to hear, I know, but if you ever find yourself in need of a listening ear, you will always have a friend and confidant in me. In fact, should you wish to do an exclusive interview with me, I would even be so gracious as to allow you to read the finished product and assist me in making edits before it heads to the press for print!
Do let me know when you'll have some time for that interview.
Your friend,
Rita Skeeter
"Trash," Harry agreed with Hermione, crumpling the paper into a ball and adding it to the soon-overflowing pile in the bin next to the desk.
On top of the desk lay a handful more letters, all opened and resting neatly atop one another. "And those?"
"The usual. I'm working on it," Hermione said. "But, Harry, I really think you ought to think about–"
"Just tell them all I'm not ready yet, Hermione. Please," he added at the end, feeling a bit guilty for having Hermione write back to all his correspondences, whether it had been her idea or not. He suspected she hadn't realised quite how much work it would turn out to be. Neither of them had.
But they had started coming the day after the war. Many of them were from the Ministry, either wanting information or offering him a job he didn't want. Hermione insisted he reply to them all, if only to deter them for a little while. It wouldn't do to start pissing them off already, she'd insisted. After five days had passed, she'd given up on him and taken it upon herself to reply.
More than a few of the letters were from Rita Skeeter and other reporters, using various methods to request an exclusive interview. Those hurt to read but never bothered Harry much, seeing as he sent them all immediately to the trash.
Also in the trash were the love declarations and crude offers which Harry had no interest in taking up, no matter how much of a wasted opportunity Ron insisted it was.
It was the final category that was the worst: the personal ones. The thank you letters, the funeral notices, the gruelling obituaries.
After the letter from Dennis Creevey (in which Harry had been forced to read about how much Colin had looked up to him, how proud and pleased he would have been to know his death paved the way for Harry's success) Harry had started asking Hermione to read them first.
As if sensing his somber mood, Ron asked, "Oi, mate, if you had to choose one person to receive letters from for the rest of your life, who would you choose – Rita Skeeter or Romilda Vane?"
"Really, Ron" Hermione said exasperatedly.
Harry's face grew comically disgusted. "I think I'd take up Voldemort again."
Hermione rolled her eyes. Ron considered his answer, tilting his head to the side. "Yeah. Fair."
As Hermione picked up another subject to prattle on about, Harry finally let himself ease into the room and sat on his cot, leaning back until his back hit the wall. Pity invite or not, Harry thought he might never want to leave. Being confined in a room with Ron and Hermione was the only semblance of normal he had left.
—
The best moments were when she was sleeping.
Ginny's sleeps were always black and dreamless and wonderfully peaceful. So peaceful, in fact, that she absolutely dreaded waking up.
Waking up was always painfully crushing, the memory of Fred's death dawning on her with massive weight. Waking up meant having to come to terms with the fact that she would never see him again all over. She would sleep forever if she could. But her mother had other plans.
"Ginny. Lunch is on the table."
Fred's death had also taken away her mother's tendency to yell. She always sounded soft these days, voice on the brink of tears no matter how bossy the words were. Ginny never thought she'd miss the high-pitched shrill her mum's voice so often took. It was the reason she didn't fight to stay in bed.
"Okay, mum."
Her mum telling her to do something without yelling or commanding, and Ginny listening and following orders without argument – Fred would have said the world must be ending.
As her mum continued her trek to call everyone down for lunch, Ginny felt the pressure of tears push beneath her eyelids, forcing their way down her cheeks as they so often had the last few days. She wiped them away roughly, not wanting to succumb, again, to the sort of sobs that would give her a headache for the rest of the day.
Drawing in shaky breaths, she gathered her wits and left her room. She hadn't even known she was hungry until she was sat next to Charlie at the table, waiting for the rest of her family to join them.
Ginny folded her arms over the table and flopped her head down on them, turning her face so she could see Charlie as he lifted his hand and lightly scratched her head. "Mum made bangers and mash," he said.
Ginny blinked.
"Who's with George?"
"Percy."
She nodded, closing her eyes tightly to stop another batch of tears. Charlie leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her head. Soon after, the table began filling up. Everyone else but her father was here: Bill, Fleur, George, Percy, Ron, Hermione, Harry. That would be everyone else from now on.
—
"I was thinking I'd go to Hogwarts. Help out for a bit."
Harry had been expecting some sort of reaction, but not the way Hermione's and Mrs. Weasley's eyes widened and exchanged glances, as if this was something they'd both expected and feared.
"Harry…" Hermione began uneasily.
"Don't be silly, dear," Mrs. Weasley smiled gently at him. "You've done enough already."
Harry's jaw tensed.
You've done enough.
His blood turned so cold it nearly made him shiver. Mind battled with instinct as he reminded himself over and over that Mrs. Weasley had not meant it in the way that had been taunting him ever since Voldemort's body had crashed to the ground.
You've done enough.
You've served your purpose.
You've done enough.
You've reaped enough damage, caused enough loss.
You've done enough.
Hermione, who understood Harry a bit better, explained, "I think what Mrs. Weasley means is that they've got it under control. Bill and Charlie mentioned they've got more than enough volunteers. And you need your rest, Ha–"
"I've been resting," he bit, snapping under the frustration of being told what he's done and what he needs. "I'm sick of resting. I can't sit around doing nothing anymore, I'll go mental."
Mrs. Weasley countered, "Perhaps tomorrow. It's already midday anyhow, and I'm not sure how the weather will–"
"The weather's fine, Mum." Harry turned to his left, surprised to see Ginny curled up in the armchair. Despite living in the same house for the past week or so, he rarely saw her apart from mealtimes. "Just let it go. Can't you see he's dying to get out and actually do something? Besides, I don't think he's asking your permission."
Sporting a shocked face at Ginny's unexpected outburst, Harry stumbled over his next words. "I…er, no, I'm – I'm not."
"Right." To his utter relief, Mrs. Weasley's clear annoyance was directed towards her daughter and not him. "And I suppose you're going to say you want to hop on off and do the same?"
"Me? Merlin, no. I don't want to go anywhere near that bloody place."
"You watch your language, young lady!"
Ginny rolled her eyes.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed the exchange with various forms of glints in their eyes and half-smiles on their faces. Having spent many-a-summer at the Burrow, the sound of the only two Weasley women bickering was nothing unusual on a typical day. But the days have been anything but typical since the war, and Harry suspected no one had realised how welcoming the sound of their arguing would be.
"Harry," Ron whispered urgently. "Tell Mum you're thinking of moving out."
"Ron!" Hermione slapped his arm.
"What? I think we could all use the drama that'd bring about."
"I heard that Ronald," Mrs. Weasley reprimanded, getting to her feet. "And that will be enough of that nonsense. Harry," she turned to him, looking stern, more solid than she had since the Battle. "I expect you'll be home for dinner."
Harry decided not to fight the most genuine smile he'd had all week. All year, possibly. "Yes, Mrs. Weasley."
—
Harry apparated outside the gates, craving the nostalgic feeling of walking through them, crowded around other students, stupidly excited about the upcoming school year.
This was nothing like that.
Even after days of cleanup, the damage was still remarkable. The larger pieces of rubble were mostly removed. But the smaller pieces remained, along with concrete shavings dusting over the grass. There were craters in the ground that Harry couldn't be sure where they came from. Ripped articles of clothing scattered here and there.
It was nearly an entire minute before Harry heard voices and a couple seconds later he was spotted.
"Is that – bloody hell, it is."
"Who–oh."
Harry walked past the gaping volunteers and continued his trek up to the castle. The closer he got, the more whispers he heard, and the louder they became.
"That's Harry Potter."
"I told you he'd show up!"
"Oh, now he decides to help."
"Where has he been all this time?"
"Is it just me or does being a hero make him sexier?"
"I went to school with him, we're basically friends. He lent me his quill once!"
"Do you think he's still with that muggle girlfriend of his?"
"Look, he's still got the scar!"
"Should I go over and say hi?"
"Mister Potter!"
Finally a voice he wanted to respond to. Harry paused and waved weakly. "Hello, Professor – or, er, Headmistress?"
"What are you doing here, Potter?" she asked with a resigned sigh.
"I came to help."
She gave him a once-over in the way Professor McGonagall always did – harshly and very judgemental. "Very well," she concluded, reluctantly accepting his offer. "This way."
Harry followed her and did his best to look around the school he loved so much, the school that was his home, without meeting the eyes of anyone else standing around. It appeared no corner of the castle had been left unharmed. The sight was crippling.
You've done enough.
In the end, she led him to the Great Hall, where he spotted two familiar redheads conversing lowly together.
"Am I right in making the assumption you would rather work with the eldest Weasley brothers than the other volunteers here today?"
Harry shrugged, having genuinely not considered it, but appreciating the thought. "Yeah, sure, that works."
"Good then. I'll be making my rounds."
Harry bid her farewell and began walking away when she called back to him. He turned and met her eyes with a look he would have described as wary. To anyone else witnessing the interaction, they might have described the look in his eyes as something else – sharp, guarded, daring, and a little bit frightening.
McGonagall did not flinch. She met him evenly, wearing the same stern expression he'd grown accustomed to since his first day at Hogwarts. "You have done well."
The shock flickered across Harry's face for no more than a second.
Sometimes, Harry suspected McGonagall had grown quite fond of him over the years, and he imagined she wanted to say more than she let on. But his Head of House had never treated a student unfairly nor one more important than the other, not even in praise.
"Thank you, Professor," he nodded, surprised to see that he meant it.
They turned around and walked in separate directions.
"Harry," Bill said in surprise when he caught him walking over. "Wasn't expecting to see you here. How'd you escape Mum?"
"Er, Ginny helped, actually. They had a bit of a row."
"Did they? Good. It's been long overdue."
"Should've hauled Ron's arse over here with you," Charlie commented. "I've been telling Mum keeping the lot of you there cooped up wasn't doing anyone any good."
Bill smirked. "Sure she took that well coming from you."
"Doesn't matter anyway," Harry said. "I don't think Hermione would have been too pleased with him if he came."
"Ah, right. I keep having to remind myself that's a thing now."
"About time, really."
"S'pose I wasn't really around enough to see it coming like the rest of you." Charlie frowned.
"Bloody dragon trainers," Bill shook his head. "Always too busy having to do the coolest bloody job in the world and never having time to watch your youngest brother parade about like an arsehat for years. What a knobhead you are."
Charlie's jaw tightened, and Harry sensed that there was something stronger hidden beneath the layers here, but for his sake, they dropped it.
"Anyway, Harry," said Charlie pointedly, slapping hand on his shoulder. "Let's get to work."
For the first hour or so everything went smoothly. Harry, Bill, and Charlie set about repairing the chunks of wall missing from the Great Hall. It wasn't difficult exactly, but it required wearying, patient magic. Harry, who normally found pleasure in being active to the point of exhaustion, was surprised how easy it was for him to get lost in this slower-paced work. Every so often Bill would get called away to inspect an item or an untouched area, testing for leftover curses or dark magic that could accidentally harm someone. But the three of them had picked up a rhythm that made it easy for him to slip in and out of the work.
It was right after that hour that the first person gathered their wits and sauntered over to Harry.
"Excuse me," the witch said. "Are you Harry Potter?"
Caught off guard, Harry (almost) visibly jumped. "I, er, yeah? I mean, yeah. I am." He pointedly ignored Bill and Charlie snickering from behind him.
"I thought so," she said, her chin slightly lifting. "I knew you hadn't run away with that muggle girlfriend of yours."
"She's a witch," Harry corrected, "And she's not–"
"I knew you'd come back to help. You always do, don't you? I've always admired that about you, Harry."
Harry was sure he had never seen this girl before in his life. "Thanks?"
"My mum and dad always believed in ya, Harry," another voice said, and Harry realised for the first time that a small crowd had begun to trinkle towards him. "They said there ain't nothin' for me to worry about 'cause you were destined to defeat 'im."
"That's…that's really nice, but that's not exactly–"
"My cousin fought with you," started someone else. She… she didn't make it. But I'm here anyway, because I know it's where she'd be."
"Harry–"
"Guys!" The first witch who'd approached him shouted loudly, effectively shutting off the clamour of voices that had started attacking him. "It wouldn't do to overwhelm the bloke his first day here, would it?" Grateful for the interruption, Harry gave her a quick thankful smile.
Seeming to take that as encouragement, she stepped closer, flinging her dark hair over her shoulders. "I can't imagine how you must be feeling." Another step closer and she was in his personal space; dark eyelashes batted up at him as her hand slid from his shoulder down to his wrist. Unable to help it, Harry flinched and took a microstep back, conflictingly wanting to get as far away as he could but not wanting to make a scene.
She continued, "If you ever need a break from anything but don't want to be alone, feel free to owl me. I've heard I can be very comforting."
Harry, despite himself, flushed at the insinuation. "Thanks, but I–I need some air."
"You heard him," Bill's commanding voice came immediately, and suddenly he and Charlie were flanking him, staring stonily at the group of people that had inconspicuously cornered them.
"Make way," called Charlie, his voice no less authoritative than his older brothers.
"What's gotten into those two?" Harry heard someone say, and he got the distinct impression that when he wasn't around, Bill and Charlie were probably quite friendly with all the volunteers. Not secluded into a corner with him.
You've done enough.
Harry let them stick around long enough to get him through the Great Hall. As soon as they were out, he told them he'd be fine from there and hurried back through the Entrance Hall and out onto the grounds, taking purposeful strides away from the castle.
Five minutes. All he needed was five minutes.
That, it turned out, was too much to ask for.
As the gate came into sight, Harry noticed a small blonde woman scurry through them. "Mister Potter!" she was calling, nearly running toward him. "Mister Potter!"
"Yes?" Harry asked warily, not seeing any way to escape other than literally running in another direction.
"Mr. Potter," she wheezed when she finally got to him and held out her hand, "My name is Teresa Tofty. How are you doing?"
"All right," he answered unsurely, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "How are you?"
She appeared not to notice that he hadn't shook her hand. "Me? Well I'm wonderful, just wonderful. Glad to catch you at a good time! We were wondering whether we'd be able to ask you a few questions."
"We?" Harry's gaze lifted up as he asked the question, and he caught sight of at least five other people in various stages of rushing through the gate and toward him. One of them, he noted, had a flying quill keeping pace next to them.
Reporters.
"Now's not a good time, actually." He backed up.
"Oh, it won't take long, not long at all," Teresa prodded.
"I really don't–"
"NO REPORTERS ON SCHOOL GROUNDS."
Harry felt eternally grateful to Professor McGonagal for the second time in as many hours.
"Back to wherever it is you were all hiding before you got here," she ordered, coming to a stop next to Harry. "Shame on all of you! Just because the wards on the school have been temporarily broken does not mean you are free to walk in here whenever you please. Unless you are here to make yourselves useful and help with repairs?" Her voice, firmly stern, accompanied a most scrutinising gaze. "And you, Miss Tofty, I expected more from you."
"Professor McGonagall, you understand, we have a job–"
"I have a job to protect my students from pestilent harassment."
"You are still a student then, Harry?"
"Out."
None of the reporters bothered arguing this time. They all left, mumbling insincere apologies with irritated frowns on their faces.
"Mister Potter."
"Yes, Professor?" Harry dreaded what she would say next.
"I trust you know I mean it when I say that you will always be welcome here at Hogwarts."
Harry swallowed. "But?"
"But do you really think returning so soon was the wisest decision?"
In an oddly distant voice, he replied, "I only wanted to help. I was tired of doing nothing."
"There are very many ways in which you could help, Mister Potter. Some which don't include feeding yourself to the wolves."
Harry felt something snap inside him that made him scared to open his mouth. Scared that all that would come out would be a neverending scream.
Somehow, he managed to say, "I think I'll go see if Mrs. Weasley needs any more help at the Burrow."
McGonagall's voice was, for once, soft and sympathising. "I think that would be wise."
—
"All right then, Ginny." Her mum's voice was tight once again, strained with the effort of holding back tears, as the door closed behind Harry. "Come help with dinner, dear."
"Yes, Mum," she said, even though it was the last thing she wanted to do.
What Ginny wanted was sleep. Dark, empty sleep, where nothing mattered and nothing hurt.
But sleep would have to wait. She drew her hair into a ponytail at the base of her neck and sat at the table where her mother was loading vegetables for her to chop. Ginny worked silently and efficiently, drowning out the world but for the sound of the knife slicing through potatoes and landing on the cutting board with a loud knock.
Zing, knock, zing, knock, zing, knock. Over and over, Ginny's movements were robotic, and she was so singularly focused that the sound of her mother's voice caused her fingers to slip and the knife came down on her finger.
Ginny cried out, more in shock than pain, and held her finger away from the food.
"Oh! Oh, Ginny, how did you manage that? Come here, let me see."
Biting her lip Ginny allowed her mum to take her hand and guide her over to the sink, where she quickly cleared away all the blood and began stitching the skin back together.
"So clumsy sometimes," the older woman said under her breath.
"You startled me!" exclaimed Ginny.
"I only asked you a question," her mother chastised, and it was then that Ginny realised how slowly her mum was going at healing the wound.
With seven children and a husband with a track record for getting foolishly hurt, Molly Weasley was no stranger to cleaning and healing injuries. A cut like this shouldhave taken her seconds at most.
Yet here they stood, nearly a full minute later.
"Is everything all right, Mum?"
"I was just wondering whether you planned on answering my question."
Ginny blanched. "What was the question again?"
The response came with a heaving sigh, "I asked why you were so adamant not to go to help at Hogwarts."
"You're joking. I thought you didn't want me to go. You put up such a fight with Har–"
"Of course I want you to stay home!" her mother snapped. "But the way you said it made it sound as if you never… your father and I have been a bit worried, you see. You haven't said anything about what it was like, and you've been sleeping so much, and-"
"You want to know what happened when I was there."
"If you told us maybe we'd be able to-"
"It was terrible, Mum. That's it. Do you want me to relive all the details?"
"Did something happen?"
Ginny laughed humorlessly. "Loads of things happened."
"Did someone hurt you?"
Ginny pulled her hand away. "I think I'll manage like this."
"Ginevra Weasley-"
"I don't want to talk about it, Mum! Don't force me to. Please."
"It will be good for you!"
"I don't remember!" she blurted, reaching for any excuse to get out of having to talk about it of all things.
"You don't remember," her mum said disbelievingly.
"No. And now I have a headache."
"Ginevra Molly Weasley, don't you dare walk away from me!" Ginny walked away. "Fine! That's an entire week on cleanup duty, young lady. And none of your brothers are helping!"
Her mother's shrieks followed her out the kitchen and up the stairs; Ron flashed her a thumbs up as she passed him and Hermione on the couch, as if she'd gotten herself in a row with her mother on purpose.
"Fuck off, Ron," she seethed, turning into her room and slamming the door shut.
Ginny considered casting a muffliato, so she could scream without being heard. But somehow, inexplicably, it was still illegal for Ginny to do magic outside of school.
School.
Ginny wondered what Harry was doing there now, whether he'd found whatever it was he'd been looking for. She hoped so. If anyone deserved it, it was him. He had won the war. If it hadn't been for him, and her brother and their best mate, she'd still be at school right now.
Still…
She shied away from the memories at first; then, slowly, hands closed into tight fists, recalled them.
Or tried to at least.
Tracing back her train of thought, Ginny recited in her head, if it hadn't been for them, I'd still be at school… doing what? Going to class? Leading the D.A.?
She sat on her bed. Ginny went back to school alone last September – that she knew. She went to school, where Professor Snape was Headmaster, and lessons were different, she had new professors and lost old ones, and it was a scary time. She had to stay home after Easter, then she returned with her brothers to fight in the Battle. Then the Battle happened – Fred died, Professor Lupin and Tonks died, Harry won, and that was it.
Worriedly, Ginny chewed on the inside of her mouth.
Those were all facts. Facts as clear as the ones printed in any version of any newspaper.
The details – what were the details?
For the first time since the war, Ginny tried to remember.
She couldn't.
—
When Harry appeared back at the Burrow, his first instinct was to find Ron and Hermione.
The kitchen was empty — though it smelled heavenly — when Harry walked in. He wasn't sure where Mrs. Weasley was, but he made it to the fifth floor without running into her. Or anyone else for that matter. Deciding it would be fine to check in with Ron and Hermione first before he let her know that he'd returned, Harry lifted a hand to the door knob.
Before he could turn it, however, he noticed the faint but clearly-there buzzing sound coming from inside.
Harry's hand fell away as if it had been burned.
Shame prickled the back of his neck and flooded down his arms. Of course they were taking advantage of the time they had while he wasn't here. They weren't at Hogwarts anymore. They weren't in danger anymore. There was no reason for them to be hanging around waiting for Harry to come back, to hear about what had happened.
Harry tried to decipher what it was he was feeling and failed. He didn't want to be bitter or sad. He was happy for them. He was. Harry knew, better than anyone, how they felt for each other – how long they'd been waiting for this, how happy they were now, despite everything else, because they were finally there. And they deserved it. Harry felt that, down to his core, no one deserved happiness more than his best mates.
So it didn't make sense why he felt so shallow, so lost, traipsing back down the stairs. Like something was missing.
He passed Ginny heading up to her room, a glass of water in her hand. She looked startled to see him, and they both paused when her mouth opened, presumably to say something like you're back already? Or to ask him why.
Harry braced himself for it. But then she changed her mind and just gave him a tight-lipped smile instead. Harry returned the gesture, then they both continued walking, Ginny up the stairs, Harry down the stairs.
He wandered aimlessly out the house, not caring where his feet carried him until he ended up by the lake, and he stood there, staring at the still water. He stood until the soles of his feet began to ache. Then he sat and kept staring, and he wondered how selfishly arrogant it was to feel so empty now that no one needed him. Not the school, not the ministry, not his best mates.
He'd done it. He'd saved the world. The danger was gone. He was the Chosen One no longer. Famous, sure, but purposeless. No one to protect, no evil to overcome.
Harry didn't know who he was without it.
—
First it was Charlie, after he and Bill came back from Hogwarts. He showed up in her doorway, hands in his pockets, smelling and looking rank. Ginny told him so. He laughed and sat on her bed anyway.
Ron tried shortly after, but all it took was asking him to recount what he had gone through for him to drop it.
Her dad tried next, under the guise of calling her up for dinner. Instead of yelling from the landing like he usually did, he went way into her room, wearing his trademark smile. Ginny scowled at him and told him not to bother.
Her mother would not dare trouble George with this, but she mustered a feeble attempt out of Percy, who gave up promptly when Ginny began threatening him with a kitchen knife.
Hermione got her alone by asking her to come help her with something up in Ron's room after she finished tidying the kitchen. Ginny confronted her about what she was trying to do before she could say anything else. The older girl had the decency to look bashful before abandoning any attempt to pry, instead telling Ginny she'd be there to talk whenever Ginny wanted.
Now, Bill sat next to her on the porch swing with a sigh.
"Saved the best for last, have they?"
"Are you finally admitting I'm your favourite brother?"
"I will if you don't ask what happened to me at school."
"Bloody hell. I don't know who's more stubborn. You or Harry."
"He's still out there?" Ginny asked, impressed.
"Yeah," Bill nodded. "He wouldn't take the plate of food from Ron and Hermione, but he took it from Mum when she went out there. Still wouldn't come inside though."
Ginny considered this. "I think he's more stubborn."
"I wouldn't be so sure," scoffed Bill.
Ginny folded her arms.
"Was it really so bad?"
"I'm not hiding anything, Bill. I just really don't want to talk about it. I'm trying to move on, and I wish you'd all just let me."
"Move on. Is that what you'd call it?"
"Call what?"
"Staying home and sleeping more hours than you're awake?"
"And what would you have me do otherwise?"
"You could always come with me and Charlie. Help out a bit."
"I'm not going back to school! And I don't see any of you harassing Harry, Ron, or Hermione to go help. Mum fought Harry from going earlier!"
"Harry, Ron, and Hermione went through a lot this year."
"And you think I hav–oh, I see what you're doing. You're such a dickhead, Bill. A stupid, foul, complete dingbat. I wish you'd all just mind your own bloody business."
"We just want to help you, Gin-"
"Then leave me the bloody hell alone!" Ginny called from over her shoulder, having gotten up and started walking away from her oldest brother.
"Where are you going?" he yelled after her.
"To hang out with Harry!"
"Good! You can both wallow in your own misery together!"
Ginny turned to flash him a scowl and two middle fingers. Bill mirrored her image before walking back through the door.
"Wanker," Ginny kept on insulting him under her breath, stomping toward Harry's general direction. She didn't know exactly where he was, only knew from the mutterings of Ron and Hermione and her mother that he had glued himself next to a tree by the lake and refused to move.
It made more sense after Bill and Charlie came home and informed them of what had happened that afternoon at Hogwarts. He had caused quite the stir, it seemed, as only Harry Potter would.
Ginny imagined the papers would be out extra early tomorrow. She'd been peeking at them through her mother's fingers, scoffing at the guesses for Where Harry Potter Went on Vacation or the explanations for Why Harry Potter is the Most Eligible Bachelor (or is he?).
It was all utter rubbish. For having just won a war and defeated the darkest wizard to ever live, the papers spent a lot of time speculating on the most mundane parts of Harry's life. She couldn't understand why Mum and Hermione bothered reading them. It would drive her mad if she did. She knew it was slowly driving Hermione mental. Probably her brother too, though he tried not to show it. Harry, though, never seemed to entertain a single one.
Finally, she found him, indeed sitting near a tree by the lake. It would have made a beautifully sad picture: a boy with messy black hair, in messy dark clothes, sitting with his head bowed and back hunched, contrasting an orange and gold sunset and bright green grass and deep blue water.
Next to him sat a plate of half eaten food lazily pushed aside. His head lifted as he heard her approach.
Cautious green eyes met cautious brown ones.
Ginny found it impossible to look away.
"If I sit here," she asked, "Will you promise not to try to talk to me?"
He looked confused at first, then sceptical, then relieved. He nodded.
Ginny sat.
Neither of them spoke a word.