Loss

Loss

By: Ginnysdarkside

The Mediwizards hadn't been able to do a single thing. Not a thing. When Ginny or her father had looked to them for answers, they'd had only questions. How long had this been going on? Had anyone noticed any symptoms? Was there any family history of disease?

Answering the questions had given them something to do, but just barely. It was something the family could do, sitting in the faded waiting room outside the ward. The springs from the couch dug up under Ginny's backbone, but she refused to move, instead her fingers tracing over the threadbare roses in the upholstery over and over, as if trying desperately to knit the well worn fabric back together with her touch alone.

Fred and George were uncharacteristically silent. Instead of joking, they'd settled into a corner with their backs against each other's, where they occasionally murmured in low voices in the disturbing twin way they'd always had.

Her older brothers weren't there, although they had both sent letters, and Percy had risked his father's wrath once, and only once, to stop in and check on their mother. He'd left shortly thereafter, his pale cheekbones tinged with deep red spots of color as his fingernails dug into his palms. Ginny had winced as her father's heatedly whispered words had drifted in from the hallway.

"You didn't bother to care for years, why start now?"

It had taken everything Ginny had not to cry, and she'd buried her face in Ron's shoulder while he stroked her hair, his fingers gentle and reassuring.

"We'll get through this, Gin. We always have before."

She thought about those words as she stood beside the gaping grave and watched the dirt being slowly shoveled in over the coffin. Ron stood next to her, his head bowed, Hermione and Harry on his other side. She'd avoided his questing hand as he tried to hold hers, and instead she folded her fingers in front of her as if in prayer. No, Ron, she thought. We will not get through this, and this is nothing like before.

The kitchen in the burrow was quiet and echoing without the sound of the wireless her mother liked to listen to, or the clink of silver on china as the dishes slowly washed themselves in the sink. After everyone went home, Ginny stood there, the warm wood of the kitchen table smooth beneath her hands. It was the family table, battered and scarred. How many of them had banged their spoons here, or scarfed down biscuits and hot chocolate late at night when they couldn't sleep? Now it was just a piece of furniture. Another reminder that her mother would never come home again. Another reminder that this was no longer a home.

As the weeks went by, her father spent less and less time in the Burrow. It was almost as if he, like she, could barely stand to be reminded of what should be there and was not. He kept busy, staying at work so late that Ginny, home from her internship at Gringotts, was already in bed, lying beneath the covers as her eyes stared unblinking at the ceiling.

On some of these nights, she'd go back down to the kitchen and she'd turn on the Wireless just so there would be some noise in the house. She'd make tea or toast, just for the comfort of seeing the dirty dishes in the sink. It made it seem as if there was someone in this house besides her. A ghost maybe, the spirit of what they missed. But in reality, she knew that she was the wraith, wandering through life as if she too had died.

It wasn't fair. It was never fair. Wizards and Witches were supposed to live long and productive lives. They weren't supposed to be struck down by Muggle maladies at the age of fifty six. The problem with Muggle maladies was that they weren't simply for Muggles, as the Mediwizard explained. Sometimes Wizards and Witches were more like Muggles than they cared to think.

Ginny closed her eyes and tried not to think about it. Those last few weeks with her mother gasping in pain had been crueler than any of the Unforgivables. In the end, Avada Kedavra would have been kinder. A low rap at the kitchen door made her look up, and she blinked wearily at the black hair framed in the window before standing up to open it.

"You look tired, Gin. We're worried about you." Harry said, pushing his glasses up his nose with one forefinger as he shifted from foot to foot.

She managed a smile. The calm, brave one that she wore all the time now, as if there wasn't a vise around her heart, that felt very soon as if it would stop her from breathing. "I'm fine," she said in a calm voice. "Would you like some tea?"

The kettle was bubbling almost pensively on the hob, and she took a pink china cup from the cupboard and watched as the amber liquid streamed down into the cup. It swirled at the bottom for a moment before leveling out, and she kept her eyes on it, afraid to look up into Harry's eyes.

His fingers took the tea from her fingers, and they stood there for a moment, the china cup like an offering between them. "You're not fine," he said. He set the tea aside and she felt pain in her chest as he took her hand in his. "Look at me."

From the corners of her vision, she could see how concerned his face looked, but she knew that if she faced him, she wouldn't be able to pretend anymore. All this time, she'd been sure that somehow she'd wake up, and this would all be a terrible dream. If she faced him, if she allowed him to see her grief, it would be real.

"Harry." The word was a whisper, a plea. "Please, I can't."

She saw his body stiffen, and before she could say another word, he stepped closer to her and pulled her into his arms. The feel of his chest under her cheek made something fragment in side of her, and before she could stop herself, she dug her fingers into his jumper and sobbed.

Tears slid down her cheeks, hot falling rain on blighted land, and the low keening that sounded like the kettle whistling was her. It went on and on, higher and higher, and still he held her, his arms taking in the grief just as the wool of his jumper soaked up her tears. His hand crept up over and over again to stroke her hair, and she cried until her eyes hurt and she could no longer even feel.

When her shoulders finally stilled, she felt him guide her into the sitting room and pull her down onto the couch. She collapsed against him, her head resting in his lap, as his hands soothed up and down her back.

When at last the only sound was the crickets chirping outside, and the low ragged hum of her breathing, he spoke. "I loved her too, Gin."

She turned then and finally met his eyes. The grief there was so tangible it was like words written in steam on a foggy window. Her hand reached up and cupped around his neck. "I know you did."

They were silent for a while, and Ginny shifted on the couch so he could lie down next to her. The two of them survivors on a red plaid raft amidst the sea of the empty house. His arm was warm around her, and she pillowed her cheek against his shoulder as his hand brushed her bright red hair back from her forehead. When his lips gently brushed the skin of her temple, she closed her eyes.

"Stay with me, tonight."

He pulled her closer, his hands warm on her back, his scent warm and comforting, like tea and chocolate and home. "Of course I will."