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Ginny sits in the crowded Great Hall and feels utterly alone.
There’s a dull hum that hangs in the air, a combination of melancholic murmurs and quiet, tear-streaked condolences. Ginny’s numb, sitting on a bench with a half-empty tea mug going cold in her hands. Her clothes are covered in blood, ash and Merlin knows what else and she thinks her arm might be bleeding. But none of that matters, because she’s still sitting there.
Her mind is struggling to make sense of her surroundings. Of the pale hand peeping from beneath a sheet nearby, the red splashes that dot the dated stones, and the muted cries echoing in the vast empty spaces left by those who have moved beyond this world. Everything feels hollow and out of place.
There are some things in life that can’t be comprehended before they have happened. And even when they do, they are senseless and wrong.
Death is one of those things.
Someone speaks up near Ginny in a hushed tone. She grips the cold mug in her hand and keeps staring at the pale brown hand that can’t touch anything anymore. It’s stained pink by dried blood.
Ginny wonders who it is – if she’s passed them by in the hallways, what kind of a life they lived. The hand looks too delicate, too young to be so still. They were once someone’s child, someone’s everything. Now there’s just cold flesh and a still heart.
A gentle pressure on her shoulder breaks Ginny’s thoughts right as someone pulls the sheet down to cover the lifeless arm. Her eyes stray towards the grieving face of her mother, who clutches her shoulder tightly, as if to make sure she’s still there, breathing.
“Let’s go get some sleep, Ginny, dear.”
Ginny blinks up at her.
Her name sounds strange, like a foreign word spoken for the first time. She feels like an outsider in her own body.
“I’m not tired.” Even though she is. She’s so tired she doesn’t know how she managed to say those three words. But the thought of closing her eyes makes her feel sick. She doesn’t want to face the imagery her cruel mind will create from heartache and fear. Being awake in this reality is already a nightmare.
Her mother’s lips purse and tears start glistening in her red-rimmed eyes. “We’re all going to go together—“
“I’d like to stay for a bit,” Ginny says because she doesn’t know if she’d even be able to move. She doesn’t want anyone to know how broken she feels, doesn’t want them to see the constellations of scars stitched on her skin. Doesn’t have the strength for the questions and tears they’ll inflict. There's already enough pain without hers added to it.
“No, we have to—“
This time it’s not her that interrupts the sharpening tone. “I’ll stay with her.”
Ginny doesn’t have the energy to look at him, which is a small mercy since she thinks she might truly break if she did.
He sounds as exhausted as she feels. Ginny wonders when was the last time he felt safe enough to sleep through the night. It’s been ten months since she did.
Distantly she can hear her mother attending to him, hugging him tight in sobs of relief. She feels so far away.
“-and you’ll come with us, of course! Minerva has arranged a chamber for the family,” Molly goes on. Ginny can feel the emotion radiating from him at the inclusion, and she wonders if he’ll ever feel like he’s a member of the Weasley clan. He’s been her parents' seventh son since the moment he stepped foot in the Burrow that very first time. He’s been her…something for a long time now.
“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley, really, but I’ll stay with Ginny for a while.” His voice is firmer, more insistent this time and she thinks he might fight her mother for it. But there’s no need because he’s Harry. She envies him for that sometimes.
Molly is quiet for a breath, and there’s a low murmur that might’ve been Ron. He’d understand, Ginny thinks. Out of everyone in her family, Ron might get it – her pure exhaustion and the importance of this moment between her and him.
“Alright, then,” her mother says, and that’s that. Her brothers file out, Percy walking an ash-drawn and glass-eyed George towards the doors of the Great Hall. He’s clutching a watch in his hands, knuckles white and face empty, like he’s withdrawn from this world that couldn’t possibly keep on going without his other half.
Bill’s hand squeezes Ginny’s arm as he and Fleur pass her, their hands entangled tightly together. Her father leads her mother out after them, calming down her protests with whispered words and a gentle arm around her.
Ginny watches them go, wondering if they’ll ever be the same again. She knows the answer, but it hurts to even think of it. They’re all broken, and they’ll all heal differently. But they will never be the same as before, nothing will. And that’s how it’s supposed to be.
Through her peripheral vision, she sees Ron pat Harry’s shoulder and throw a concerned look toward her as he and Hermione follow the family out, fingers interlocked in quiet comfort.
Then it’s just them in a hall full of people mourning. Ginny feels his gaze on her. It’s raw, the way he looks at her like there’s nothing he expects from her but herself. She wants to look at him more than anything in the world.
He walks forward, evading the white sheets that cover patches of the floor. She keeps looking at nothing. He sits down next to her, an arm’s width away but closer than ever.
Harry moves his hand and envelopes her free one with it, lodging their fingers together. Ginny stops breathing because his skin feels warm and real, and maybe this isn’t just a fever dream after all. Her heart cracks, the pieces correcting themselves to fit together again, like breaking a bone that’s healed incorrectly. She releases a shaky breath and clenches her hand, getting a press of his thumb against her skin in return.
They sit like that, side to side with their hands interlocked. Ginny doesn’t know if it’s minutes or hours or days that go by in the comfort of his presence, the utter lack of expectations that hangs between them. He doesn’t try to talk, neither does she, and perhaps he’s just as exhausted as she is. But they’re just there, quietly existing in each other’s space. They don’t need words in this moment. The silence is enough.
Ginny thinks of the things she wants to say, can’t say, and needs to say. I’m not okay. I’m broken and I don’t know how to stitch myself back together. I love you. She squeezes her eyes shut.
They have days, months, years to talk.
Or maybe they never will. Maybe there will never be a time for them. She doesn’t know, but she hopes they’ll get there. Someday, somehow, when everything doesn’t hurt as much as it does in this moment.
For now, Harry’s thumb smooths over the jagged scar on the back of her hand that wasn’t there all those months ago. Ginny leans against his shoulder and listens to the beat of his heart.
Harry's alive, and Tom is not.
And she’s breathing, too, even if it takes everything to do so.
There are just some things she can’t say yet, if ever. War rattles people, and even if she’ll never be fine, she will still live for the ones who can’t, no matter what it takes.
I’m glad you’re here, she thinks because his presence speaks multitudes.