Anew

Chapter Four: The Aftermath

"Parting is...all we need to know of hell."

-Emily Dickinson

***

"You didn't stay."

Her hand was still tracing the hard, metal edge of the watch on her wrist. Yes, she had left that dusty, dim room and joined the battle. Had he expected her not to? Had she so little will of her own? The band of the watch was cold and almost sharp, a reprimand along the sensitive skin of her fingers.

"You left."

Ginny looked up and met Harry's piercing gaze. Only it wasn't piercing, as she had expected. It was weary, with only the slightest bit of curiosity, and not a little anger.

"I left," she said, her voice almost a whisper in the quiet common room.

Harry sighed and took his hand from her wrist and from the watch there. He ran his hand through his already messy hair, making it stand up in an alarming Gothic manner. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised," he told her.

Ginny felt the sudden, irrational urge to grab his hand and put it back onto the skin of her wrist, but she ignored it. Now was not the time. Instead, she leaned back, away from him on the couch, and tucked a bit of hair behind her ears, feeling unreasonably self-conscious.

There was a terse silence. She was the one who broke it. "You couldn't have expected me to stay there."

"No," said Harry slowly, "I guess I couldn't have." There was a hint of a smile behind his mouth. "You never did listen to me."

Ginny felt herself give a small smile in return. Hesitantly, she reached for his hand, intertwining it with her own. "Thank you," she said, after another moment of silence.

Harry looked at her, confused. "For what?"

"For coming back to me."

***

"Bloody damn," muttered Harry as soon as they reached the Entrance Hall. Ministry officials were scurrying around like so many rats while Aurors walked purposefully to and from the Great Hall. Healers, still ever-present, were milling around the Death Room, their crossed bone and wand emblems visible even from a distance. In the mist of it all, families were shoving their way through the mayhem to the double doors that lead out into the grounds. Several official looking wizards were stationed there; they seemed to be checking colored parchments, and they were only letting some of the people through. It was chaos.

As Harry surveyed the scene, one Auror, tall and dark, looked up at the top of the stairs towards them. Harry, not at all eager to be interrogated, swore and yanked Ginny behind a large potted plant a couple of feet away. There, they peered through the shiny, green leaves to the scene beyond, their eyes wide.

"What," breathed Ginny, "is going on?"

"The aftermath," said a polite voice behind them.

They spun around. A blonde, middle-aged man stood before them, a cigar in one hand. Harry noticed that his shoes were slick and shiny and reflected the room like a mirror.

As they watched, the man put the cigar to his mouth, took a puff, tilted his head back, and blew a steady stream of smoke towards the ceiling. "I was wondering," he said casually, focusing his lazy gaze on Harry, "if I might have a word with you, Mr. Potter."

Harry, incredulous, actually gaped at the man who reminded him vaguely of a male Rita Skeeter. Surely this was not the best time for an interview?

"You bloody well can't, Rob," replied an aggravated voice to Harry's left. The Auror Harry had seen earlier by the Great Hall had appeared suddenly at Harry's side. Ginny gasped in surprise.

Rob chuckled and blew a smoke ring at the Auror. "Ah, Jace," he said languidly. "How are you? Long time" -he tapped his cigar and ash fell to the floor-- "no see."

"Not long enough," muttered Jace irritably. He shot a glare at Rob. "Piss off, will you? We're conducting an investigation here."

The other man smiled. Harry noticed he had sharp teeth, like a shark. "Not much to investigate, Jace. This boy" -he pointed at Harry with his cigar (Harry saw more ash fall off the end) -- "killed You-Know-Who. Nothing else to it, mate."

Jace looked daggers at the smaller man. "I'm not your mate. And yes, thank you, we've put together that Harry killed Voldemort. We're not thick."

Rob smiled placatingly.

"There's more to do than just figuring out what happened," Jace said angrily. "If you'd stayed with the force, you'd have remembered that."

Rob's smile seemed to tighten. "Do I take that to mean I won't be getting a word alone with the boy?"

Jace glowered.

"Very well," said Rob with an exaggerated sigh. "I'm sure someone will be willing to give a statement...even if it isn't The Boy Who Lived." He shot one last longing look at Harry, took a puff of his cigar, blew smoke at Jace, and swept away with a cheery and dimly sarcastic, "Have a nice day."

"Prick," muttered Jace under his breath at Rob's retreating form. He turned to Harry and Ginny, both still looking surprised at the unexpected exchange. "Sorry about that," he said. "Rob's a..." He stopped, obviously trying to come up with a foul enough name.

"Prick?" offered Ginny sweetly.

Harry shot her a look that plainly said, "Don't talk like that," and then looked at the Auror called Jace, who was now staring at Ginny with raised eyebrows. Before Jace could say anything back to Ginny, Harry asked, "What's happened?" in a rather harsher voice than he had intended.

"Everything," answered Jace darkly. He looked around the Great Hall and then motioned for Harry and Ginny to come down the stairs with him.

Harry and Ginny looked at each other. They had to find the Weasleys, who clearly weren't at the top of the stairs with them, and who, most likely, were in the Great Hall or milling around with the other countless people near the double doors. They didn't know Jace, but he was clearly an Auror, from his dark, uniformed robes shot through with grey and green to the emblem on this left shoulder: a triangle of three wands surrounding a star that was tangent to all three sides.

Jace was looking at them expectantly from the top of the stairs. Harry and Ginny exchanged a glance, and then followed the Auror to the chaos below.

He led them to room off the Great Hall, similar to the Death Room. Harry didn't like how it was the same size, same color, same shape, as the room that housed all the dead, but at least everyone in here was alive. Also, everyone in here was an Auror.

There were Aurors huddled in a corner, communicating in low, quick voices. There were Aurors around a table in the center of the room, going over the papers spread out on its surface. Harry watched as one Auror pointed to a paper and made a comment that Harry couldn't hear. Another Auror shook his head. Harry thought he heard "not enough room" and "damage control, Linton, damage control."

Harry was mystified. It appeared that Jace had brought them straight into Auror headquarters. And it wasn't long before the wizards noticed their presence. They took in Jace, Ginny, and Harry, and a silence filled the cramped, little room. No one spoke for a moment. Then, from the men surrounding the table, one wizard came towards them. He had grizzled grey hair, an impressive mustache, and an official looking badge on his chest: a bright gold line bisecting a large white A.

He went right up to Jace and shook his hand firmly, looking sideways at Harry. "Excellent, Jace. You found him."

"Yes, Chief," answered Jace promptly.

Harry realized that this must be the head of all the Aurors. He was looking at the Chief when the grey, tough-looking wizard suddenly fixed his hard gaze onto Harry.

"Harry Potter," said the Chief, turning towards him and offering his hand, "welcome to the force."

***

If Percy had known that at that very moment, Harry was being welcomed into the Auror Task Force, he might have been a little miffed. However, as he was leaning against a wall in the Great Hall with a wretched George next to him and the rest of his family scattered all around him like puzzle pieces, he wasn't.

He and George had been gently shooed out of that room by several Healers; the bodies had to be taken to St. Mungo's, regardless of family grief or protest, because of certain regulations he dimly recalled from working at the Ministry. Terms and legalities flashed through his mind like his brother's fireworks never would again: health concerns regarding the quarantine and disposal...St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries will be required to submit all autopsy findings to...non-accidental deaths or deaths with unconfirmed causes must go through the following procedures: inquiry, investigation, removal from premises...

"Percy," a soft voice called to him from what seemed a great distance. "Percy, can you hear me?"

Percy looked up to see his mother staring at him in some concern. A momentary flash of guilt seized him when he looked at her pained, tear-stained face. How she could look at him like that after everything he had done, after the events of the past night, he could not fathom. He recalled a passage from Muggle Studies so many years ago that seemed relevant to his current situation, but the exact phrase would not come to the surface of his mind.

"Mum?" he responded quietly. "Was there something you needed me to do?" He took a sidelong look at George for a brief moment. He did not want to leave his brother, who was looking more awful by the minute, but if his mother needed him, he would go. And here my penance begins, he thought to himself, but that old resentment he had felt towards his own blood was not there. Time and memories and human mercy-- he was bound to them by the ruins of what was left. And now, he thought, I can rebuild it all.

"Could you take George home?" she asked softly, drawing him away from George for privacy. "Bill and Charlie are already there, but Ron won't leave without Harry, and Hermione won't leave without Ron." His mother gave him a weak, tired smile, but a smile nonetheless. And then, just as quickly as it had come, it vanished. "Your father," she continued, "is going to stay and talk to the members of the Ministry here about-- well, about a lot of things, and I will meet you at home very soon, within the hour." Her voice was almost calm, but Percy could sense the desperation underneath.

"Ok," he told her at once. "Sure, of course I will, Mum." He glanced again at George, who was leaning heavily against the wall, his eyes as unseeing as a blind man's. Percy then looked around the room, at the people-- Ministry officials and family members, the wounded and the scarred--and then looked towards the exit. How the bloody hell was he supposed to get through that?

His mother handed him a blue sheet of parchment with an official-looking letterhead, a response to his unasked question.

By order of the Ministry of Magic, this sheet hereby allows for the departure of ONE person from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Thus, this ONE person has completed the necessary forms, gotten said forms approved, and has been granted permission to leave the location of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry from an official Ministry of Magic employee of (including, but not limited to,) The Auror Task Force, The Department of Magical Transport, or The Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Please submit this sheet at the main entrance (note: this is the only authorized exit at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.) in order to safely and legally leave the premises. Also note that it is impossible to Disapparate or Apparate from or to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, except at one approved location on the grounds that necessitates the certain approved forms for use, and it would therefore be unwise to try to do so. Thank you for your cooperation and please adhere to the above guidelines for a safe and legal exit.

Copying this form or not adhering to the above guidelines is punishable by up to two years in Azkaban and a maximum fine of 200 galleons.

"Merlin," muttered Percy, although he shouldn't have. If anyone knew the Ministry's tendency to go overboard with security and punishment at inappropriate times, he did. He reread the form, frowning.

"It says here that this form is for only one person."

Something flashed across his mother's face, so quickly that it was gone before he could recognize it. Without so much as a quick glance around her, she pointed her wand at the form and muttered, "Duplicario!"

"Mum," breathed Percy, as a carbon copy of the first form appeared on top of the original. "Are you sure--"

"Of course I'm sure," she replied fiercely. "I refuse to abide by a law that keeps my family here against their will." She then pulled him into a hug, and he breathed in all the smells of home: flour, sugar, pollen, maple syrup.

Letting him go with a watery smile, she moved to George and whispered something in his ear. George acted as though he did not hear her. Maybe he didn't. She hugged him as well, and Percy thought he saw more tears fall down her fair face before she let him go.

Percy averted his gaze for a moment when he felt a burning behind his eyes. He took a deep breath and looked around. Ron and his dad had come up to say their goodbyes. It was bittersweet, this new family contact that he had not had for so long. He wanted to be pleased that he was back within the family circle, but given the current state of things, he couldn't muster up that long-desired happiness.

Ron left, holding hands with a curly haired girl that Percy remembered was Hermione. Since when had Ron had a girlfriend? It was unnerving, all that had happened while he was gone. And then his mom and dad left, his dad's arm wrapped around his mother's shoulders as they moved slowly out of the Great Hall. His dad's hair was thinner in the back than he had remembered. And for how long had his mother hunched over like that when she walked?

He shook his head. It would not do to think about these things. He turned to George, who had not appeared to have moved. Percy sighed and wrapped an arm around his younger brother, noticing with a pang that they were the same height now.

Moving slowly, like an old man, Percy walked with George to the great double doors.

***

"The force?" echoed Ginny faintly.

The Chief shot her a look. "Who is she?" he asked Jace, still scrutinizing Ginny.

Jace had the grace to look embarrassed. "She's, ah..."

"Real thorough investigation there, Smith," a squat Auror commented wryly as he passed them, a stack of papers under one arm.

"Cool it, Lafayette," said the Chief, his gaze now on Jace as the other Auror slunk away. "Although he does have a point, Jace," added the Chief, his eyes hardening. "You have no idea who this girl is. That's a serious breach of security. I instructed you to find only Potter, and you bring his girlfriend. That's not what I expected from the Auror at the top my payroll."

Jace looked even more uncomfortable. "My apologies, Chief. I was ambushed by Rob when I found Potter. I got distracted, not that that's any excuse," he added hastily.

"Rob, eh?" asked the Chief slowly. "Well... That's no excuse, but I'll let you off the hook because he's a right git." The Chief gave a short bark of laughter. Harry and Ginny jumped. "Besides," he added, looking at Ginny again, "she doesn't seem like much of a danger."

Ginny glared.

"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure of that," said Harry, speaking for the first time since they entered the room. "She's capable of a mean Bat-Bogey-Hex if she's mad enough."

Ginny and Jace both looked amused, but the Chief merely shrugged. "Doesn't change anything," he told the two teenagers. "She has to leave. We want to talk you, Potter. Alone."

"Anything you have to say to me can be said to Ginny," Harry said, meeting the Chief's fierce gaze.

Jace glared at Harry. "A moment, Sir?" he asked the Chief. When the Chief nodded, Jace wrenched Harry away to an unoccupied corner.

"What is wrong with you, Potter?" asked Jace angrily as soon as they were out of earshot.

"Nothing," said Harry coolly. "And I don't appreciate being dragged into this room by you and then confronted by your Chief." His tone was slightly mocking. "And then you try to push around my girlfriend. I'm not interested in what you want from me, because, honestly, I don't want to give you guys anything. And I don't have to." He glared at Jace, who was looking at him as if he couldn't believe Harry was actually talking to him like this.

"Potter," said Jace slowly, "have you heard of the word insubordination?"

Harry glowered at him. "You're not my superior. I don't work for you and I don't want to be a part of your force. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and find my girlfriend's family."

As he turned to go, Jace grabbed Harry's arm in an iron grip, jerked him back, and shook him, hard. Harry's head snapped back from the force of it and he could hear Jace's words come out in a hiss near his ear: "You're unbelievable, Potter. You think you can run away after all this has happened? You might think you're entitled to certain luxuries, and while you may be entitled to some, an absence of responsibility is not one of them. You have an obligation to the world you saved because you have information no one else has. You know names and places and dates that are crucial to this investigation. Without you, history will repeat itself--again. And I," said Jace with cool conviction, "will not let that happen."

Harry yanked his arm free from Jace's grip, his green eyes blazing. "I don't work for the Ministry," he spat. "Believe me, this is not the first conversation I've had like this. You all need me to boost morale or show people that the Ministry is going in the right direction, but it never is. And I won't lie on your behalf. I won't do anything on behalf of the Ministry, come to think of it, or you lot can just go piss right off."

Harry vaguely realized that he was attracting attention to himself and Jace, but he didn't really care. He looked sideways at Ginny and the Chief... only the Chief had left to go talk to the Aurors around the table again, and Ginny was leaning against the wall alone, her arms crossed over her chest and looking irritable. If she had heard Harry's tirade, she was doing an excellent job of not showing it.

"You're not going to work for the Ministry," Jace said, lowering his voice.

Harry looked back at him. "What?" he asked.

A slow smile was spreading across Jace's face. "You won't work for the Ministry, Potter," he repeated. "In fact, you won't work for anyone. You'll work with us."

Harry stared at him. "I don't..." he said uncertainly, "understand. What do you mean by 'with us?'"

Jace gestured around the room, at the men hunched over charts and floor plans, at the wizards conversing in low, important voices, at the Aurors planning on how to catch Dark Wizards. "You'll be one of us, Harry," Jace told him, and Harry recognized the use of his first name as a sign of respect rather than informality.

"I'll be an Auror?" asked Harry, not daring to believe it.

Jace grinned, his dark eyes bright. "You'll help us round up the Death Eaters that are trying to escape. You'll give us all the information you know to convict them. You'll testify in front of the Wizengamot to make sure those Death Eaters never get out again. You'll do exactly," Jace told Harry, "what we do."

"I'll be an Auror?" repeated Harry. His mouth felt very dry and he could feel his heart beating against his chest violently, excitedly.

"Yes," said Jace, "you'll be an Auror."

***

After waiting in line for what seemed an eternity, Percy and George made it to the front of the line. A woman to the right of them was hysterical, shoving a bright yellow form at one of the Ministry officials while struggling to get through the doors.

"I need to get to St. Mungo's," she cried. "My son, my son-- he was injured in the fighting and he's there. He's there and alone, and I need to get to him. Don't you understand? Look at me!" she said, her voice rising in pitch and volume. "Look at me! You can't just keep me here. I have to get to my son--"

"I'm sorry, Miss," said one of the wizards, looking very uncomfortable but firm. "You have a yellow form, which means you have to get signed off by one of the Healers stationed near the Great Hall before you can leave."

"I'm going to go to St. Mungo's. I can see a Healer there," the woman pleaded, tears now streaming down her face. "Please, I just want to see my son."

The wizard faltered as he looked at her tear-streaked face and the grief and desperation etched in the lines there. "Miss," he began gently, holding up a finger to Percy and George to signal that he would be there in a minute. "Miss, I really can't--"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," muttered the other wizard stationed at the doors. He turned to the crying woman. His face was hard, but not as hard as his voice. "Listen," he told her harshly, "you can't get out without a blue form, so stop crying about it; go see a Healer by the Great Hall. And stop whining about your son. If they've taken him to St. Mungo's, he's probably not something you want to see, anyway."

"Dakson!" reprimanded the other wizard, looking daggers at the hard-faced man. He turned from the wizard called Dakson to the hysterical woman. "Go see the Healers, please. There's nothing more I can do for you," he told her softly. And with a last choking sob, the woman turned and ran from the doors, towards to the Great Hall.

Percy looked at Dakson, who was motioning for the parchments in Percy's hand. Percy handed them over, but did not stop looking. It was like a mirror. He could see the determination in the man's eyes and the scowl on his mouth. Percy knew it had little to with cruelty, but more to do with obedience. This man had been given orders, it was clear. And to disobey those orders was as foreign an idea to his mind as Mermish was to his tongue. He could no more have let that woman through the doors than cut off his own hand. And the power of a job well done that had settled over Dakson was tangible. Percy could feel it. He could remember it, too: the sense of resisting temptation and the blindness to the pain of others that came with a pride so powerful it swallowed your past and your past's importance. Because what did it matter, as long as you did your job? What did it matter if people were hurt? Because they certainly didn't matter. And if they didn't matter, then there was nothing stopping you from forgetting all about them.

Dakson handed Percy two black pieces of parchment and told him to hand those to the men by the green sign in the grounds; the sign would have white writing that said DISSAPPARITION AND APPARITION CENTER. "You can't miss it," Dakson told him, but Percy was barely listening. His arm was around George's waist, and George had just lifted his hand up and grabbed Percy's wrist.

Percy felt their blood beating together just under the skin, the pulse of brothers, of family. He felt a sour-sweet ache at the back of his throat and a pressure in his chest as if his heart was beating at twice the normal pace. He could not believe he had thrown this all away. He had had everything, and he had left it behind. And for what? For pride, for ambition, for a taste of an empty success that never really mattered. And it hadn't-- not compared to holding up his brother as if, without Percy, George might not be able to stand up. Not compared to George's hand around his own, as if the sheer contact with Percy could keep George here and alive and away from a darkness so deep and endless that it might swallow them all.

As Percy walked George to the green sign several yards away, he looked up at the bright sky. It was midday; the sun was beating down from the center point in the sky. And with a bright and sudden clarity that imitated the sharpness of the sun's rays, Percy remembered that passage from Muggle Studies: the Prodigal Son.

This son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and now is found.

Percy turned his head back towards the great double doors that were closing behind them. He took one last look at Dakson, a man that could have so easily been himself, and forever shattered that mirror of his past.

***

This is what happens when you lose a child: your brain freezes, as if the idea of the death of your own child is so impossible that it takes longer to process it; your heart stops, literally. You can't feel it, and it doesn't even matter anymore; the pit of your stomach freezes fast, while your legs go to jelly. The shape of his name, sharp as metal fillings, gets caught between your teeth even as you try to force it out in a shout. And then, finally, your throat seals shut, as you swallow the fact that you've made a mistake you will never be able to fix.

Mrs. Weasley had never lost a child, so she wasn't exactly sure what happened next. She had lost almost her whole family during Voldemort's first reign. And she was sure that pain like that couldn't strike twice. It was like lightening, surely, that rare and that terrible-- a sharp, bright pain out of nowhere.

Only it had struck again, and this time, it had torn her apart. She felt like she was dreaming. People's voices seemed muddled and distant and their shapes were hazy and wouldn't focus.

And the worst part, the very worst part, was that she knew this pain wouldn't gradually lessen and disappear like the pain of a paper cut. It wouldn't hurt at first, making you wince and clutch at the pieces of skin, and then five minutes later, you would have forgotten all about it. She had gone through it before-- although, it couldn't have possible been this bad, could it? -- and it never ended. There would be birthdays and Christmases and days where the memories of his witty smile and the exact tilt of his chin brought on an agony so severe it chokes you. How could you keep breathing after the miracle of a child that took your breath away is gone?

You couldn't, but you had to. Life went on. You had a husband who had to work out official business and other children that needed you to sit with them, hold them, and lie and say everything was going to be ok, even though it never would be. And so you're this broken person who has to fix everyone up when all you want to do is go into his room, take one of his shirts out from his messy closet you were always yelling at him to clean, hold it in your hands, and cry until you're so tired you fall into the blissful oblivion of sleep.

With a sigh and a straightening of her shoulders, Mrs. Weasley walked towards a group of Healers near that room where they had taken Fred. She had watched them move the bodies outside with levitating charms; Mobilicorpus had been murmured so many times that it had seemed like a ghostly chant, echoing the death of someone with every raise of a wand and light of a spell. There had been an instant uproar. Who dared to move the dead? And then there had been other spells and an Auror and a Healer had spoken, and then there were tears and the frantic rush to go to wherever they were taking the dead. After awhile, she had turned away and tried to block out the noise, but the memory of Fred and his death was overwhelming, all around her.

She went up to one of the Healers; the woman was wiping her sweaty brow and stretching up towards the ceiling. "I tell you," Mrs. Weasley heard the woman say to another Healer, "not the best day to have back pains. Not when you have to bend down and talk to children and have your wand constantly up in the air for some reason or other."

Oh, yes, Mrs. Weasley thought savagely, I bet you're really suffering.

She was shocked. Usually her thoughts were not so harsh, but as she tried to bring up that sense of guilt and repentance, all she saw was Fred's face, and she felt anger and resentment and sadness. It was like a torrent of emotions inside of her, a tornado of pain and grief and loss-- the sense that a part of her had been tore away and she would never get it back.

"Can I help you, dear?" asked the Healer gently.

Mrs. Weasley shut her eyes for a moment and then opened them to see the Healer, who had complained about her back problems when people had lost everything, asking her if she could help.

Yes, yes, you can help. Turn back time, just for a day. Give me one more day with the child I loved and lost so quickly that I can hardly believe it. Stop complaining about your back, stop being selfish, because once you are, once your letters to your son are only a page long and never ask the questions you want to and never say everything you need to say, once you don't talk to your child everyday and keep them safe and don't worry about them as much as you needed to, they're taken from you. Yes, you can help, Mrs. Weasley thought. Give me back my son.

She wanted to say that, all of that, but she didn't. Instead, she asked, polite as ever, "Do you know where... the... those-- people-- in... that room? Do you know where they go?" Her voice sounded sharp and unfamiliar to her ears.

The Healer smiled at her sadly. "St. Mungo's," she said. "There's an inquiry..."

"Inquiry?" asked Mrs. Weasley, and an ominous feeling of dread filled her.

The Healer looked uncomfortable. "When a death has an unconfirmed cause or wasn't an accident, the...body... has to go to St. Mungo's for investigation."

"Investigation?" she echoed faintly.

Another Healer came up to them and whispered something to the Healer in front of her that Mrs. Weasley couldn't hear. The first Healer then fixed a bland smile on her face and looked again at Mrs. Weasley. "I'm terribly sorry, but I don't have all the details. If you proceed to St. Mungo's, I'm sure they can give you more information."

"But," Mrs. Weasley protested, "You work at St. Mungo's. Surely you know what's going on?"

The Healer shook her head. "I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help. If you have a blue sheet you can go out the double doors and Apparate to St. Mungo's from the green sign in the grounds." She looked at Mrs. Weasley with an infuriating smile. "Do you have a blue sheet?"

Wordlessly, Mrs. Weasley took out one of the blue sheets that Arthur had given to her what seemed like hours ago, with a whispered, "This is a ticket out of here. Make sure everyone has one, and then leave." He had given her seven. She had given one to Ron and Hermione, but hadn't been able to find Ginny and Harry. She gave one to Percy... and not to George. She had duplicated it after she had looked at George's face. Perhaps it was because she had momentarily forgotten the extras in the pockets of her robes, or because when she looked at George's face, she had wanted to do something against the administration that had brought this hell to her family.

It had been nice to have something to do, to pass out the blue sheets, but then that had passed. So she gave herself a new assignment. She had to figure out what was going to happen to Fred. And even though it was horrific and terrible and uncomprehendable, something was going to be done to her son's body. And she wanted to know what.

The Healer nodded and smiled at the sheet clutched in her hand. "Then you can go to the doors there, see them? And give that sheet to the men there and then Apparate to St. Mungo's."

Mrs. Weasley noted dimly that the Healer was talking to her like she was a child. Mrs. Weasley looked at her; she couldn't have been older than thirty. How dare she talk down to her? Was she now stupid because she had lost her son? Was she now not to be respected? How dare she?

Something was happening inside her, a snap in her usual calm exterior. She felt like the bunt cake she had been cooking in the oven last summer; she hadn't heard the timing spell going off and the whole cake overheated and exploded all over the inside of the oven, leaving an unrecognizable mess in its place.

She looked at the Healer, felt her gaze sharpen, her eyes narrow and her mouth tense. The Healer's bland smile faltered at little.

"I don't want to Apparate to St. Mungo's. I want to know what is going to happen to my son."

"I'm sorry, I can't--"

She felt like she had felt when she had seen Bellatrix try to murder her only daughter. She felt that rage build up inside her, sharpen and harden to a deadly point. Only this time, it was focused on the Healer.

"Can't?" she echoed softly. "Or won't?"

The Healer backed up a step and shot a pleading look at her other comrades.

"Miss--" one of them began, but she cut her off.

"Don't," she said, her eyes still focused on the Healer in front of her. The Healer that thought she could withhold information from a mother. How many other mothers, children, fathers, sons, daughters, had been treated this way? On the very worst day of their lives?

The rage seemed to crystallize inside her.

"Tell me," she said, her voice barely over a whisper. "Tell me what will happen to my son."

The Healer looked at her for a long moment. The silence was defining.

"An autopsy," the Healer finally replied, now averting her gaze.

"A-- what?" asked Mrs. Weasley, horrified.

"If the cause of death--"

"I know the cause of death," she said, her voice rising. "An explosion."

"Then it doesn't have to happen."

Mrs. Weasley looked at the Healer. She thought of knives being drawn against unresisting skin, thought of organs being weighed and measured, and felt suddenly ill.

"Go," the Healer said quietly, motioning to the blue sheet still clutched in Mrs. Weasley's hand. "Go to St. Mungo's."

She went.

***

"So," said Hermione slowly, trying to make sense of everything. "Percy and George went home, your dad's talking to some people from the Ministry, and your mom went to talk to some Healers, right?"

"Right," Ron said, leaning against the wall just outside the Great Hall. They had gotten sick of sitting in there like it was mealtime and everything was normal--which it obviously wasn't and would never be again--so they had walked out to the Entrance Hall after saying goodbye to George and Percy. He didn't want to remember the stricken face of his mother or the dead eyes of George, so he forced that thought back.

But the Entrance Hall had been chaos, so they had went back and sat in the Great Hall for awhile while his father and mother had left to talk to people he didn't know and didn't care about. And he was left with Hermione. He thought this might have offered him some comfort, but she just kept staring at him worriedly, like he might shatter apart at any moment. She had been doing this since they had left the Great Hall for a second time almost an hour ago. It was rather irritating.

They hadn't been able to walk around the castle-- everything but the Entrance Hall and the rooms bordering it had been roped off-- so they were forced to stand in the Entrance Hall and people watch. Only, there weren't very many people left. It had been a number of hours since Voldemort had been defeated, and most of the people that had been milling around, trying to leave, had succeeded and gone home. Home, thought Ron miserably, the place he wanted to go to more than anything.

He didn't know where Harry and Ginny were, and he couldn't really bring himself to care. If he was in a mood to be bothered by anything, the fact that he didn't care where Harry and his younger sister--Harry's girlfriend for Merlin's sake--were, might bother him. But he didn't care. Couldn't bring himself to care. Even Hermione's worrying was only a slight annoyance on the border of his emotions. Because all of his mind was taken up by Fred.

And it wasn't fair. It really, truly wasn't. He wasn't George. He wasn't Fred's best friend and twin and, to be honest, he and Fred were never really close. They loved each other, sure. They were brothers. Who didn't love their brother? But they were never inseparable. Ron was closer to Harry than he had been to his own brother.

And that killed him.

It ate away at his insides like acid, crawled inside him like a parasite. Why had he gone days without talking to Fred? Why had he never owled him and asked him if he wanted to go out to lunch in Diagon Alley? Why, after Fred and George left school, had he not stayed in almost constant contact with them? Why had he let a gulf come between them, as deep and wide and uncrossable as a canyon?

Fred was dead, and now George might as well be. His mother would never be the same. It would be like when Percy had left, only a thousand, a million times worse. And if his mother was devastated, then his dad would be destroyed. And if his dad was torn apart, then Bill and Charlie wouldn't have their role model anymore. And then they would be gone to. And Ginny, sensitive even though she didn't show it, would be lost when everyone else was gone. And Percy would be wrenched out of the family as quickly as he had been welcomed back into it. Because there would be no family anymore.

Grief, instinctive and strong, was like a sudden kick behind his knees. He found himself on the floor before he realized he had fallen down. He felt the cool polished marble under his legs and against the palms of his hands. Ron tried to look into it to see his reflection. He could hear the familiar sound of Hermione's voice at his ear, frantic and concerned. He could hear his own breathing coming in hitching gasps, and he tried to control it, but he couldn't.

He stared at the shiny marble floor beneath him until his reflection burred so much that he could not see it, until he couldn't hear Hermione's voice, until he let the grief take hold of him, and drag him down.

***

Hermione knew Ron knew that she was staring at him, but it couldn't be helped.

How do you not stare at a person who has lost someone? You can't not; you have to watch to make sure they don't fall apart. You have to see their face, stripped of all those defenses and wonder if helplessness is a chronic ache.

Helplessness, thought Hermione, just as Ron sank down to the floor in front of her as abruptly as if he had been knocked over.

Her heart jumped, surprised, as he fell, and she knelt down beside him. Tentatively, she put her hand on his shoulder and spoke his name in his ear.

Ron.

He didn't respond. He seemed to be almost convulsing. He was breathing in an uneven, jerky manner, as if he couldn't get enough air, and he was leaning heavily on the stone floor.

And he was crying.

Something about seeing actual tears falling from Ron's face and hitting the marble floor like unrelenting rain, struck a chord inside her.

This was Ron. He was the one who had made fun of her hair when they were eleven and stupid. He was the one who stared across a cracked and broken chess board and said, quite calmly, that it was the only way. He was the one who had been so much like a guy, jealous and infuriating, during the Yule Ball that she had screamed at him. He was the one who had kissed her not so many hours ago, making the coming horrors seem bearable. He was Ron, and seeing this brave, amazing, seventeen-year-old boy cry in front of her, this part of her childhood, made her eyes burn and her hands shake.

What was she doing? She had no idea what to do in this situation. Usually, she was the one crying, and Ron was the one comforting. This was no Arithmancy problem, no charm she could practice. She was on her own to deal with Ron's grief.

Looking around hopelessly, she realized with a shock that she actually, really was alone. Except for the officials by the door, there was no one around. The Healers had all been dispatched to St. Mungo's and the Aurors were out roaming around the castle, gathering evidence for the endless trials ahead. The other Weasleys were nowhere to be seen.

Harry, she thought suddenly, desperately. Harry, where are you?

But Harry didn't magically appear, as she had wished. There was only her.

She shook her head. She was a problem solver; she could get through this. She whispered words in Ron's ear that she didn't even think about : I'm sorrys, and other meaningless phrases that didn't do a thing.

A truth suddenly slipped into her mind like whispered secret: You can't stay here.

And that was true. By now, maybe everyone was at The Burrow. Maybe they were the only ones left because everyone else had already gone home. And as awful as it seemed, that they had left without them, it gave her a destination, a goal. She checked the pockets of her robes and found the two blue, official-looking sheets Mrs. Weasley had handed to her after George and Percy had left.

With a herculean effort, Hermione pulled Ron to his feet. He wasn't crying anymore, but he wouldn't look at her. She took his hand and dragged him without a word to the double doors. A cruel-looking man snatched the parchments of her hands and handed her two black ones while muttering something about a green sign in the grounds.

She breathed deeply as soon as they were outside. It was late afternoon, and the sun was beginning to set on the grounds. If she were in a calmer state of mind, she might have enjoyed the smooth line of trees in the distance, the sun glinting off the clear-glass surface of the lake like a winking eye, the cool breeze of a summer afternoon as soft as a kiss.

She led Ron to the green sign with huge white letters, and handed the black forms to a bored looking wizard there. He glanced at them without interest and pointed to a plot of grass outlined in what looked like shimmering red paint. Hermione and Ron stepped into it.

She squeezed her eyes shut, clutched Ron's hand tightly, and spun on the spot thinking The Burrow over and over in her mind. She thought of the great, tilting house, the smell of it: dust and sweet cooking spices. She thought of the Weasleys and Ron and the laughter that echoed off the cracked and ancient windows.

She thought of The Burrow, spun on the damp grass, and tried not to think of what happens next.

***

References:

-"This is what happens when you lose a child... never be able to fix." -adapted from the prologue of The Tenth Circle by Jodi Picoult

-Jace is the name of the baby of a friend of mine. I loved the name and decided that this adorable boy, all dimples and curly hair, should be a badass Auror, determined to catch all the bad guys, no matter the cost. I think it fits, don't you? (and his last name if Smith, if there was any confusion)

-Rob, Dakson, Lafayette, and the Chief are all characters of my own invention

-"Thank you." "For what?" "Coming back to me." - Draco Veritas by Cassandra Claire

-The Prodigal Son quote comes from The Bible, Luke 15:24