And Death Shall Have No Dominion . . .

And Death Shall Have No Dominion . . .

Chapter Two - Fred Weasley

Harry wouldn't look at Ron or Ginny, but Hermione couldn't look at anyone else. The skin across Ron's face was drawn and pale, but his eyes were forbidding and hard; it was as if he was striving to win a fight he knew full well he would lose. Hermione was fighting her own battle to stay unemotional and detached for the Weasley family's sake, but it was difficult.

Ginny's face was a stone wall. Harry was sitting next to her looking like he wanted to hold her but didn't know if she would accept the gesture. Hermione allowed herself to focus on Ron directly and saw him shiver as though he was freezing cold, despite the ninety-degree weather. She moved to grasp his hand in hers. As soon as she touched him he instantly gripped her fingers hard enough for her to flinch, but she didn't. Instead, she clenched his hand just as firmly and held on as though both of their lives depended on it.

Maybe it did.

*

Ron could feel Hermione's hand pressing against his and if he hadn't been in the middle of one of the worst moments of his life, he probably would have appreciated how diligently she was trying to console him. Losing a brother felt so wrong. He couldn't concentrate on what Hermione was doing because he was too distracted by the knot in his throat and the itchiness residing stubbornly behind each of his eyes. Why had it been Fred? Of all of the evil people who should have died during this bloody war, it had been his brother Fred who had been struck down in the prime of his life.

Fred had been such a bastard to him at times growing up. Once when Ron had been five, Fred and George had managed to jinx him onto the roof of their house. Considering the lopsided nature of said roof, this had been an exceedingly precarious position to be in, but Fred and George - especially Fred - had simply laughed themselves silly. After that, the twins had gone inside triumphantly and Ron had had to yell and yell for help. It had taken almost an hour to get rescued since his mum and dad had assumed the noise was coming from the ghoul in the attic.

Ron chuckled at the memory; he couldn't help it. As soon as the laugh escaped him, however, it seemed to release something else as well, and before he knew it sobs were welling up from someplace deep, deep inside of him. Ron didn't see his parents' expressions of grief. He didn't see Bill biting his lip, Fleur's eloquent crying, or Charlie mournfully shaking his head. He didn't hear Percy weeping more vocally than anyone else, or George's awful counterpoint of a disconcertingly anguished silence. He didn't hear Ginny's choked whimper or see Harry struggle not to break down himself as Ginny fell into his arms at last. The only thing that Ron could distinguish from this desolate background was Hermione, her eyes full of unshed tears as she bent toward him to hold him close. It seemed like she was the one thing that kept him from flying into a million pieces. She let his head slide onto her shoulder without complaint, and a remote portion of his brain wondered if she was carrying some special power that would allow him to survive this day.

Maybe she was.

*

When Ginny saw Ron's loss of control, she knew she was done for. Colin's funeral had been terrible enough, but Fred's . . . Fred wasn't supposed to die. How could someone as irrepressible as her brother - the beginner of George's sentences, the instigator of the biggest pranks, one of the two people responsible for her mother's worst rages - how on earth could he possibly be dead? It seemed like an unpardonable sin that Fred was gone. Percy's falling out with the family had been painful, but it had been temporary and the wound was being healed. Fred's departure was permanent though, and Ginny couldn't reconcile her brother's deviously intelligent face with the marble tomb that represented where he had just been laid to rest - forever.

As she observed her family, Ginny began to see them as a vessel that had once been whole and perfect but was now damaged and cracked. She couldn't imagine how her family would get through this - how she would get through this - and as the fragile façade keeping her together finally broke, she fell sideways out of her chair, not giving a damn about the consequences. She had fully expected to land despondently on the ground, but she didn't. Before she could drop more than a few inches, a wiry but familiar arm reached out to catch her. Her body stopped in its tracks but her pain continued outwards in a sudden wave, crashing through her system with the strength of a torrential storm.

A couple of minutes later she looked upwards to see that she was being supported by a blurry someone with glasses and bright green eyes. She blinked, and the very recognizable face of Harry Potter came into focus. Ginny Weasley detested being mollycoddled - it had happened far too frequently in her short life - but she grudgingly realized that Harry's protectiveness was exactly what she needed right then. She wished she could deny it nearly as much as she wished she could deny her brother's death, but it was the truth - no matter how much she would have preferred otherwise. As she sat in the sheltering warmth of Harry's arms, however, a surprising idea came billowing into her head. Despite the melancholy pall of grief she had been under, did she still want to be caught?

Maybe she did.

*

Harry had been growing more uncomfortable by the minute. Ginny had never been much of a crier, something for which he would always be grateful, but he knew it was almost a certainty that she would be crying today. Her brother was dead - a brother who she was incredibly close to - and Harry knew better than anybody that no one could wholly foresee what effect such a loss would have on her. Ginny was fiery, brilliant, feisty and tough, but she was also Fred's little sister. Harry had known that this day would be hard on her, and the fact that they hadn't really had a decent one-on-one conversation since the defeat of Voldemort wasn't helping matters either.

Harry had dreamt of throwing down the gauntlet more than once, of biting the bullet and telling her his true feelings. He needed to reconnect with her, to be honest without reservation about what he had kept hidden from her for so long, but such a dialogue seemed inappropriate in their present situation. Harry didn't know what to do.

After a certain space of time, Harry made himself glance at Ron. Ron had successfully held his emotions in check for a while, but when Ron's composure melted away, something compelled Harry to turn immediately to Ginny. He felt his stomach tighten distressingly the instant he saw the expression on her face. She had apparently been watching Ron too, and was now weeping in the same hysterical manner that he had seen from her only once before. She seemed to be losing the physical ability to sit up properly, and Harry reached for her automatically, nestling her in his arms. Ginny accepted his support without a word, and Harry's aching heart flared to life again with one resolute but admittedly frantic hope. Was it possible that Ginny still wanted him? Did she need him as much as he needed her? Harry took a shaky breath as he considered the answer.

Maybe she did.