Anew

Chapter Six: Comfort, Compassion, and Catharsis

Man, when he does not grieve, hardly exists. ~Antonio Porchia, Voces, 1943, translated from Spanish by W.S. Merwin

***

Once, when Fred and George were seven, a friend of theirs who lived a few miles away died suddenly. Timothy Gibbet wasn't exactly a close friend; Fred and George only saw him every other weekend when their mothers met up for tea to chat about everything and nothing, but his death meant something all the same.

Most deaths do.

Their mom owled Mrs. Gibbet for days afterward and flooed over for a bit whenever she got a chance, and the twins were always amazed at her when she got back. Her cheeks would be shining like when she chopped onions and when she would look at them and the rest of their siblings, her eyes got wide and bright as the galleons they never had.

Even though their dad got into a row with her about whether or not to attend the funeral ("But they're too young to see something like that..." "They were his friends, they've got to pay respects!"), Fred and George found themselves one gray and drizzling day dressed up in clothes that made their skin itch, and traveling down the road to Timothy's house.

Although, perhaps it wasn't his anymore.

Bill and Charlie were away at school and Percy was at a playdate that had been arranged too long ago to cancel, so the three oldest siblings didn't come to Timothy's funeral. Ron and Ginny came though, and their dad too, as it was a weekend and he didn't have work.

Fred and George watched their mum talk to Timothy's mum and their dad to his dad and Ron and Ginny huddled together a short while away against the steadily dripping rain and, as was their custom, listened to the grown-ups talk.

"Well I heard it was quite sudden, she just walked into his bedroom and there he was, still as stone--"

"--it was an aneurism, wasn't it? Quite undetectable..."

"Tragic, tragic. And passed on all alone, poor soul."

The rain was picking up now. George blinked water out of eyes and turned to his twin. Just beyond Fred he could see where the coffin was. Tim was supposed to be in that, but George for some reason couldn't picture it.

"Did you hear that?" asked Fred.

"What?"

"That he died alone."

George tugged at the scratchy collar of his robes. "Uh huh."

Fred looked back at the coffin, black and shiny and spattered with droplets, then at his twin. His eyes looked rained on, too.

"When I die," he said, "will you come with me?"

***

When she came in, he was sitting on the foot of the bed with his head in his hands.

"Arthur?" she said softly, and he looked up.

They stared at each other briefly, a whole conversation in their eyes, then he stood up and had her in his arms in a moment. She was not crying, but tense and he could feel that every line in her body was coiled and strung tight like a musical instrument that had never been played. She pulled away from him.

"Where is--" she began, but he was already answering her question.

"Bill and Charlie are in their room. Harry and Ron are in Ron's room and Hermione and Ginny are in Ginny's. Percy is with George in his room."

"Percy's room?"

"George's."

"Oh...yes, of course."

She was standing before him uncertainly, looking lost. "I went to the hospital," she said, perhaps just to break the silence. "I talked to a Healer, and they'll contact us in a few days about-- about... what to do next."

"Molly," he said, sucking in a breath, "you shouldn't have had to go there alone. I could have--"

"We all had things we needed to do. I just wanted to get them done."

She was fidgeting slightly now, and suddenly walked over to the dresser and started straightening the items on its surface--bottles of lotions and cards and pictures--

"Molly," said Arthur softly, "Molly..."

"There are things to be done... and not everyone can do them, you know, some things only certain people can do and I have to do them and I need to--"

A picture had slipped off the dresser, knocked off by one of her frantic hands. It shattered when it hit the floor. Glass skidded over the hardwood, spraying in all directions.

"Oh no--" She bent to pick it up, her whole body trembling.

Arthur was there in an instant, pulling her hands from the ground and into his. "Molly... stop, please stop..."

"I can't stop," she said, looking at him. Her hair had escaped her bun and was falling onto her wet face. "This never stops, so I can't... I can't... I can't--"

She was shaking her head but went limp when he put her arms around her, and then her whole body was shaking. Sharp, heavy sobs tore through her body and he could feel them go through his, but this did not surprise him. As husband and wife, they shared everything: food and house and family.

Grief was no different.

When she finally lifted her head off his shoulder, he felt, rather than saw her reach for the picture that had been in the frame. He looked at it with her. It was the picture of their whole family when they went to Egypt. They were in the middle, their children scattered around them like puzzle pieces. And that, Arthur realized, was exactly it. A family was different parts that added up to make a whole. Take even one away, and you couldn't see the final picture. Take one away, and nothing made sense anymore.

"We lost a son last night," he heard her say quietly to the soft darkness of their room, and maybe to him.

He wrapped his arm around her, held her close to his chest and watched her fingers trace the laughing mouth of the piece that was missing. Tomorrow he would try to fix the frame. He would point his wand at the broken shards of glass with their cutting edges and say "Reparo," but the spell would not work; the glass would not mend. And he would blame it on exhaustion or that his hand was not steady, but he would know the truth: Sometimes, things just couldn't be fixed that easily. Sometimes, everything just stayed broken, the pieces scattered over a now shattered home.

***

Bill was leaving his first home for his last.

He told Charlie he would be back in the morning-- which was actually now, since the sun was already coming up-- and Apparated to Shell Cottage for some reasons he understood and others he didn't.

All he knew was that he could not stand being at the Burrow for a minute longer. He felt like crawling out of his skin, like he could not get enough air-- restless, that was the word. And Fred's presence hung over everything like new cobwebs, tangling over every item of furniture, draping over every stretch of wall.

He couldn't stand it.

The smell of sea stung him breathless when he Apparated near the house. Murmuring the incantations that would let him enter the confines of the cottage, he felt his heart pick up and he blocked out every other thought besides his home and what was inside it.

She was awake when he entered the bedroom, as he had expected. He remembered her throaty voice in his ear at the school: "Go wiz your family. I'll be at the 'ouse if you need me."

Well, he certainly needed her now.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at her. She was wearing a soft white dressing gown with thin shoulder straps that glowed against her fair skin. One of the straps was slipping off, lying against her slender arm. Sitting up straighter when she saw him, she widened her impossibly blue eyes and beckoned him towards her.

"'Ow are you?" she asked him urgently. "Your family-- are zey alright?"

He slid into bed beside her and she crawled into his arms, lifting her face to his.

"As well as can be expected," he said, brushing her forehead with his lips.

"And you?" she continued, her forehead creased in worry. "'Ow are you?"

He took a deep breath, but couldn't find the words. He wanted to tell her that he was not fine, that he would never be fine again. He wanted to tell her that he felt like the world had been upended and he had been shoved away from anything that was familiar and now that everything had changed, he would never be the same. He wanted to tell her he hurt, but didn't know exactly where, and that he thought this hurt would be a chronic ache. He wanted to tell her that he thought he would never heal.

"I'm fine," he told her, and kissed her.

He did not realize he was shaking, did not realize his eyes were burning and painful. All he focused on was her, and her smooth satin nightdress falling away like smoke and the beautiful sheen of her skin and feel of her blonde-silver hair against his skin. He was only aware of the creak of the bed as he pulled her under him, of the rasp of the wool blankets and the sigh of her breath in his ear. He could feel his muscles working and the simple science of the body that never lied and this never changed and here was one thing that he knew and it was her and him and maybe this was what he needed in order to see that he still had something left.

She wrapped her arms around him tightly and he heard her murmur in his ear, "I'm sorry, bebé, I'm so sorry," and the irony of being called this by his wife was not lost on him, but the sound of her voice and the feel of her body and the shadow of sorrow that had followed him made the dams behind his eyes break and he felt the tears pour hot and shameful down his face. She pressed her lips to his eyes and down his trail of tears and he buried his head into her shoulder, not wanting her to see his guilt, or his gratitude.

***

The dress robes were in the back of his closet.

Ron reached back, nearly tripping over a stack of old, forgotten comic books, and yanked them off the hanger. He remembered his old ones, with their horrible frilly cuffs and girly trimmings, but these were much better. Fred and George had gotten them for him, but he hadn't really worn them much. He hadn't needed to.

He still didn't need to, come to think of it, but he slipped them on over his pajamas anyway, feeling the light weight of them and noticing the bottle-blue subtle sheen of the fabric. He looked at himself in the mirror, but couldn't see himself clearly. Or maybe he just didn't want to.

The door creaked open.

Hermione was standing in his doorway. She was wearing a pale grey dressing gown and a nervous expression.

"Can I come in?" she asked softly.

Ron took a moment to acknowledge the irony that there had been a time when this situation - Hermione in her nightclothes asking to come into his bedroom -- would have catapulted him into a state of such extreme happiness that he may have been a danger to himself or to others; now, it barely registered with him at all.

She took a few steps forward, wrapping her arms around herself as if she were cold. She looked at him curiously.

"Why are you wearing dress robes?"

Ron shrugged, not feeling like taking them off.

She smiled at him. "You hate dressing up."

Ron shrugged again, and Hermione seemed to not know what else to say. After a moment of silence, she said, "Do you remember the Yule Ball...?" She smiled. "You were so angry at me that night, and you were wearing your old dress robes--"

"I remember," he said heavily and sat down on his bed. "You were mad at me, too."

"That I was... Ron--" she began, but he cut her off.

"Don't, Hermione."

"Don't what?"

"Don't do what you're about to do." He ran a hand through his hair distractedly, not meeting her gaze.

Some of the nervousness had gone from her voice when she spoke again.

"What am I about to do?"

"I dunno..." said Ron, still not looking at her, "probably try to talk to me or..."

"Or what?"

Ron sighed, staring at a spot on his cuff. "Hermione..." he began, slightly exasperatedly, "you do this thing. This thing where whenever someone's been through something, you try to talk to them and it only makes things worse. Like when Sirius died and you kept staring at Harry--"

"I did not!" said Hermione, all her timidness gone, her arms by her sides now. "I was just trying--"

But Ron went on.

"And even when Lavender's rabbit died in our third year and you kept on badgering her about it--"

"Oh, so this is about Lavender, is it?" asked Hermione scathingly.

"No," snapped Ron, who was feeling more and more angry, although he couldn't say exactly why, "no, Hermione, this is about you-- you and your need to - I dunno - fix everything, even when you can't, even when you have no idea--"

"That's not fair! I'm only trying to help--"

"WELL YOU CAN'T, HERMIONE!" said Ron, standing up now. He could feel all the anger and frustration and grief and loss that had been building up all day course through him like a wave-- hot and powerful and inevitable. There was nowhere for it to go except out of him, and he could feel it rushing towards Hermione, the only outlet he had at the moment.

"You don't get it, Hermione," he spat. "You don't get it, you haven't got a clue. You just think you can turn up here all quiet and nice and I'll spill myself all over you like I did back at school-- well, I won't. I'm not some little baby you can hug and coddle and tell that everything's alright, because it's not, Hermione, it's not," and he was totally unmoved by Hermione's horrified look or the fact that he was now towering over her, and he continued-- "Fred's gone, all right? He's gone. And nothing you can say will change that so you can just piss right off and go try to talk to someone else because I'm through with talking to you--"

He broke off, looking at Hermione who was rooted to the spot, her eyes impossibly wide.

"I'm through--" he said again, his voice harsh, but then stopped again.

She was staring at him like she had never stared at him before. In the past, he had received smiles and laughs and scowls and glares and tears, but never before had she looked at him like she was looking at him right now. It was as though she had never seen him before in her life, as though a stranger she had tried to talk to had shoved her away from them for no reason. Her hands started to twitch at her sides and her eyes got very bright.

"Fine, Ron Weasley," and her voice was like unraveling lace, "fine, if you think I'm foul and worthless, then I'll-- I'll just go--" She stumbled over herself to get back to the hallway, and in a moment, she may have never even been in his room at all.

Ron stared at the still open doorway, willing her to come back in, but she didn't. After a moment, he walked slowly over to the door and shut it quietly. He walked back to the bed, tore off the dress robes, and then sat down on his bedcovers, shaking.

***

Charlie, had he heard Ron's yelling, would probably have stormed in and broken up the fight.

However, as he was several miles away on his old Comet Two-Sixty, he didn't.

Charlie wasn't completely conscious of what he was doing-- he was just going with what his mentor in Romania had always told him: "You have to focus. Concentrate all your energy on what you're doing and ignore anything and everything else."

Granted old Bill Hanglewing was talking about dragons when giving this advice, and what to do when you found yourself in a dangerous situation with them, but Charlie had found that it also worked well in other aspects of his life.

Like now, for instance, when his whole body was screaming to get away from his house, to get outside and feel the cool early air and to taste the faint hint of morning dew on the wind. He had always been an outdoors person, had always hated being cooped up and shut in, especially when he was stressed or feeling any kind of strong emotion.

So when Bill had Disapparated with a hasty, "Be back in the morning" - never mind that is already was morning -- Charlie stared out the open window in their room, saw the horizon curving up to light the earth with the soft reds and blues of a summer sunrise-- and he bolted. He went straight to the broom shed in the garden, grabbed his old broom, and took off into the sky.

It wasn't a fast broom, but that didn't matter. He hadn't been on a broom for ages. They had some brooms in Romania - some of the guys liked to ride them on their days off - but Charlie never seemed to be able to find the time. But this...this was what he needed to leave all the memories and pain behind him in that sleepy house that was getting farther and farther away with every rush of wind past his ears.

He rode over fields and sparse houses, over forests and low mountains, hills and gullies. He dove towards the soft ground, and then rocketed upwards to the sky that was now bright and warm and all the colors of summer.

He did not think. He could not think. Because thinking would take away this bliss and this was all he had left and he could not lose this. And by telling himself this, he could be free of guilt. If this was all he had, then there was every reason to stay here, on this broom, in this sky, away from his house and the shadows around it.

Charlie bent low on his broom and urged it forward, felt the air rush past his skin, over his face, against his clothes. He was flying again-- maybe this time he would never have to stop. And Charlie, one of the best Seekers Hogwarts ever had, flew mindlessly and without worry from his home, not seeking anything but to get away.

***

When Harry walked into Ron's room, the first thing he noticed was that Ron was not snoring.

This in itself would be cause for alarm, as Ron always snored when sleeping, and thus Harry immediately assumed he was dead.

"Ron," whispered Harry, closing the door behind him, and walking up to Ron's bed. "Ron!" Harry smacked him about the head for good measure.

Ron groaned and sat up, massaging his temple and glaring at Harry.

"What the bloody hell was that for?" he demanded sulkily.

"I thought you were dead," explained Harry.

Ron blinked. "Why would you think that?"

"Because you weren't snoring."

Ron looked put out. "I don't snore."

"Oh yes, you do."

"Do not."

"Yes, you do. You even snore when you're faking sleep--"

"Alright, alright," grumbled Ron, rubbing his eyes and shooting another glare at Harry through his fingers. "I was just resting my eyes by the way."

"Couldn't sleep?" asked Harry, sitting on the other end of Ron's bed and drawing his knees up to his chest.

"Something like that," muttered Ron, and then as Harry opened his mouth again, added, "Bill, Charlie, and Hermione are here, no worries... Where're Dad, and Ginny for that matter?"

Harry ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more than usual. "Your dad and Ginny are both here, I Apparated with them... Saw your mum by the way. She with your dad?"

Ron nodded. "Guess so...she dropped in on me just before you did." Ron frowned. "Wait... did you get here before or after her?"

"Oh - er - before," Harry admitted, looking down at Ron's violently orange bedspread. "I was in the kitchen for a bit after your dad and Ginny went up -- we got here before you mum -- I came up after her. I was just...getting water and..."

"And what?

Harry looked up. "I just needed a bit, you know?"

Ron met Harry's eyes, and nodded slowly. "I know," he said, and stared hard at the patches of light the sun was making on his bed.

"I want to ask you if you're alright," said Harry quietly, after a pause, "but that's what everyone used to ask me, and it just made me more upset."

"I'm not upset," said Ron quickly, but then he thought of Hermione, of her wide, hurt eyes, and shut his mouth.

Harry didn't say anything in response, and after another, longer pause, Ron asked, "Is this--" He broke off, swallowed, and then tried again. "Is this...is what I feel ever going to go away?" He looked up at Harry.

"Yes...but it takes..."

"...time," finished Ron.

Harry nodded and then added, "I'm sorry, Ron... I never got to say that, but--"

"Don't worry about it," said Ron, cutting him off. He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. "Besides...if time is what we need, then we've got it, thanks to you," - he made a brave attempt at a grin - "now that you've saved the world and all that."

Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands. Ron grinned more broadly now.

"Don't want me calling you World Savior?" he joked, and then added (trying to force back thoughts of Hermione), "I could make badges. They could have S-P-H-P-W-S on it. Society for the Promotion of Harry Potter, World Savior."

"SPHPWS," said Harry, trying to sound it out and only managing a kind of sputter. "Doesn't really have a ring to it.

"How about the H-P-F-C...? Harry Potter Fan Club," he added, in response to Harry's bewildered look.

"You try to say that."

"HPFC," said Ron in a determined manner, and flecks of spit landed on the bedcover.

Harry laughed. "That's catching, that is. No wonder it hasn't been started yet."

"It will be though," said Ron, and something in his voice had changed slightly; Harry couldn't put his finger on it. "You'll be even more famous soon, Harry, you'll be--"

"It doesn't matter," said Harry, and his voice had changed too-- now it was firmer, and he looked straight at Ron when he spoke. "I don't care, about any of it."

"I know. I was telling you," Ron explained, "because I wanted you to know what comes next."

"What comes next..." Harry repeated, and Ron stared at him for a long moment, his eyes very serious.

"Thanks, mate," he said, "for finishing it."

"You're welcome," said Harry, feeling confused yet not entirely uncomfortable.

There was a longer pause, and then Ron grinned.

"Exploding Snap?"

Harry grinned back.

"You're on."

***

Hermione was asleep, or so Ginny assumed.

She was lying in Ginny's bed, the covers pulled up so high that Ginny couldn't see her face, but despite the other girl's lethargy, Ginny still felt wide awake.

There were several reasons for this, none of which she felt like exploring, so Ginny stared at Hermione for a moment, and then, with the air of making a huge decision, turned on her heel and went out into the hallway. All she knew was that she did not want to sit still or go to sleep. She felt hyped up, alert, although in all respects she should have been exhausted and drained.

Glancing around, Ginny noticed the open door to the bathroom. The rather girlish part of her smiled; she was the only girl in a house with two bathrooms and six boys. She almost never got the bathroom to herself.

Practically skipping, she bounded into the bathroom, shut the door, and turned on the light.

All her joy seeped out of her when she looked in the mirror: small, pale face, bruised under-eyes, and a tangled mess of long, scarlet hair. Glaring at her reflection, she snatched up a hairbrush on the counter and dragged it through her hair. It snagged and pulled and hurt, and still her hair was a mess. Ginny frowned, then she spotted a wand by the bathtub. She snatched it up - hers was back in the room - and was about to perform a hair-smoothing charm, but the wand gave a loud squeak and turned into a rubber cabbage.

Ginny sat down hard on the edge of the bathtub and let the rubber vegetable fall from her hand.

How many times had she come from her room, towel and toothbrush in hand, to spend no less than half an hour banging on the door to try to get Fred and George to please let her use the bathroom?

She could practically see Fred's face swimming in front of hers, like when he would open the door a crack and stick his head through to her, standing furious in the hallway, only to grin at her and imitate Percy, a trail of smoke pouring past his head.

"So sorry, Ginevra, but it appears my assistant has somewhat overestimated the amount of knotgrass needed because he is an idiot" - cue backwards glare at George, accompanied by both their laughter - "and thus we are unable to let you in due to an - ah - excess of particularly pungent fumes, as you can see wafting above you just now... do come back later."

And then she would wail, "But Fred! What about my hair?" as she pointed hopelessly to her unwashed mane.

Then Fred would grin and abandon his Percy imitation. "That's just going to have to wait, Gin," he would say, as a muffled explosion emanated from behind him. "We need the sinks..."

"Fred..."

"It's for the betterment of Wizardkind, really," he would add, ruffling her hair. And then with a last grin, he would close the door and she wouldn't be able to use the bathroom for at least another hour.

Ginny put her head in her hands, lost in her reveries-- and then something was happening to her body. She kept seeing Fred's head, smoke outlining it and a grin on his face, and then Fred now, pale and still and dead-- and he was. He was dead. She had seen him. And no amount of denial, of kissing Harry in the Common Room, of trying to worry about her stupid hair, was going to change that.

She felt like her body was being ripped open, like it was trying to turn itself inside out. She felt the raw, hard well of nausea and reached the toilet just in time. She tasted acid and emptiness. She was violently, thoroughly sick, the image of Fred lying laughless on the stone floors branded behind her eyelids even as tears leaked out of them.

When she was sure she was done, she sat back against the opposite wall, watching the room swirl around her like a faint and dizzy fun ride that wasn't fun at all. So this is what it feels like, she thought shakily as the room spun around her, this is what it feels like.

She couldn't find her footing anymore, there was no solid ground. She wondered how she could ever move forward from this when she didn't even know which way was up.

***