Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Chapter Twenty-Three — Always Another Wound

"But under skinned knees and the skid marks

Past the places where you used to learn

You howl and listen, listen and wait for the

Echoes of angles who won’t return."

-Vertical Horizon, "Everything You Want"

Sunday, November 9, 2003

Blaise crossed the infirmary hesitantly, afraid to intrude on the Weasley Moment happening at a cluster of cots. Arthur, Molly, Charlie, George, Ginny, Ron, Potter and even Professor Granger were perched in a circle — though she immediately noticed the icy glares passing between Ron and Fred’s twin. Whatever the tension was, she didn’t really care. She turned to flee the scene — but Ginny set eyes on her first. "Blaise, come and join us?"

She glanced over her shoulder, frozen as seven pairs of inquisitive eyes settled on her face. Finally, with a muffled moan, she started on a march of doom to the mass of Gryffindor alumni. Merely stepping into Hogwarts reminded her of her one-time allegiances to les Verts-et-Argents, the green and silver banner of Slytherin. Her greeting mumbled, she stood awkwardly to the side of the family.

Ginny scooted over to give her space, which she quickly took, clenching her hands into fists to try to ease the sick feeling in her stomach. It wasn’t morning sickness, unfortunately. "I was hoping you’d show your face before you go, Blaise. I know there are a few things we all need to hear — especially George."

"I -" Blaise panicked, faced by the curious but guarded faces of her lover’s family. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. They’d planned for Fred to ease them all into it slowly, once Voldemort was out of the picture. Then Fred’s spying days would be over, and Blaise’s Death Eater days. Fred would mention her from work... then she’d be invited to a Sunday meal, to meet the parents... and then the rest of the siblings would be introduced slowly; George first, Ron last, as he hated all Slytherins with a passion. And then they’d announce their engagement, after Ron had accepted the real love between his brother and a Slytherin girl... Oh, Fred’s spying days were certainly over - now. Blaise turned to Ginny and broke into a sob of her love’s name. She hadn’t enough time to grieve.

"Shh," Ginny murmured, letting Blaise cry on her shoulder, rocking her like a sister. Blaise could feel their eyes on her still, even more confused now that her only words had been to call out the name of a dead brother, friend, son. "Do you want me to do it, Blaise? If it hurts too much, I understand -"

"No," she managed to choke out over the tears. "I’m doing it. He’d expect it of me." And she pulled away from Ginny’s comforting hug, wiping her face with her sleeve. She pulled on the air of authority, that which she’d been trained for since her noble birth, and tried to compose herself, meeting Arthur and Molly’s gazes in turn before launching into her bombshell news. "I’m pregnant with F-fred’s baby. W-we were planning to marry after the war was over. It wasn’t supposed to happen now. We weren’t careful enough, but we both wanted a baby so much, because we knew either of us could d-die every day — and then it happened. And we went and signed the papers, but we were saving the ceremony for after the war still — and he’s dead!" Blaise choked on a fresh round of sobs, pushing past them to finish talking. "He’s gone, and I won’t ever get to marry him the right way, but P-professor McGonagall was right. I have to go and protect myself and the baby, for Fred." Blaise gulped, waiting.

There was an expression of disbelief from Ron, unsurprisingly. Charlie and Arthur just looked shocked. Molly pained, as if a freshly-scabbed wound had been torn open, which Blaise assumed really had. Potter was distant, and Hermione was looking over to George... and him. The man with the face of her lover — he was crying. And he rose to his feet, before anyone else could force past the shock to react, and crossed the short space to her. Suddenly she was enveloped in a hug, and she sobbed in the arms that felt so familiar, and hurt so much.

~

Molly looked on in agony, lost as to what to do. But George decided for her. For a moment, she was afraid he was going to slug the poor woman, as he’d done to both Harry and his own little brother — but he didn’t. He hugged her and cried with her, like a lost child.

That was enough to send Molly’s maternal instincts — honed by life with seven children — into overdrive. She was up from her perch on the cot and joined in the hug in mere moments, rubbing the girl — her little boy’s girlfrie- wife’s back soothingly. Ginny was there too, stroking the girl’s hair, trying to calm her down enough to speak.

"Welcome to the family, Blaise," Molly forced herself to murmur in the girl’s ear. And it was true, no matter how painful the thought of Fred growing up and being gone so quickly was. Whether she chose to take up the name and call herself Blaise Weasley or not, she was family. She was Fred’s wife. And the baby would be Molly’s first grandchild.

"We’ll help, Blaise," she heard her husband add. He’d come over to join the sobbing group as well, looking rather awkward about the whole business. "We’ll help, when the baby comes."

Molly expected George to add something in his twin’s absence, but it never came. He’d stepped back and was staring at the ground dully. It was Blaise who next spoke, eyes noticeably averted from George’s face. Molly couldn’t imagine the girl’s pain, seeing her love’s duplicate. "You’d do that? They’d let me do that? Be part of the family even though there was never a wedding, and it’s only real because of the papers?"

"I’m sure I can talk them into changing your name officially, too... if you want... We’ll go to the Headmistress right away, before we go into hiding. How’s that?" Molly slipped an arm around her daughter-in-law’s shoulders, turning her toward the door and away from the still-shocked face of Ron.

Arthur followed the two, and Molly was well aware of a few angry words being exchanged as the trio left the room. She only hoped that Blaise didn’t hear them.

~

And Sunday night found Harry alone in the Library, long after Madame Pince had ushered the last students out. Hermione had gone hours ago, James in her arms and George practically attached to her side. Ron had followed soon after, the hurt from Hermione’s change of affections almost palpable. And so he sat, alone, paging though tomes older than the Potter line.

He was neglecting his son. He knew it, and doing it hurt, but being with him hurt just as much. James looked so much like his namesake, so much like Harry, with Lily’s eyes. But here and there... the cheekbone was a different shape, which screamed Rachel to his parched senses. The curls of black hair, the full eyelashes, the dimples when he smiled — they were all from Rachel. He wished James looked more like his mother. He was glad that James didn’t, because every glance burned to the bone. And so the little boy had lost his father, too. Rachel was his strength. He had no more to give.

This book had nothing helpful, either. He shoved it aside, the frustration growing. He’d been here, researching for countless hours. "Nothing, nothing, nothing!" Dozens of books, tomes and manuscripts, and not a hint of a way to share power! Was there nothing out there? He needed the answers, before seven more people died because he’d lived!

Like Rachel. Just like Rachel, died because he’d failed. Sirius. His parents. Rachel. All died because he was special, he was the weapon who could destroy Voldemort’s evil once and for all.

Being special wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Though really, he’d known that for twenty-two years. He was a freak, just like the Dursleys had thought. And the Dursleys were dead too. His fault. His bloody fault.

He’d put on a happy face during the daytime. He’d try to be the hero the wizarding world was so in need of. The cure was in his blood. His very blood.

But in the darkness of night, when he was alone with his thoughts, her face hung in his mind. Blaise would know how he felt — alone, but left with responsibilities after the lover’s death. But she had half a dozen Weasleys to be there, to be her family and hold her and care for her. Harry had no one. Thanks to Ron, Rachel’s family thought him dead. The Weasleys would’ve made room for one more, but then more death would follow. Death always followed him.

Death stood over his shoulder. Death took the ones he held close. He’d had enough of death. So much of death. Too much of death. And never death came to take him.

He had a knife in his pocket, for a rendezvous with death when the time came. He wanted the time to come. It could be now... but there were too many strings tying him down.

He was a Gryffindor. Gryffindors didn’t take the easy way out. Gryffindors didn’t choose death. The hat had offered Slytherin, but Harry had chosen Gryffindor. And so he couldn’t give up.

Sirius wouldn’t give up. Rachel wouldn’t give up. And so Harry didn’t give up. Late into the night he worked, until he passed out at the table, slumped over a book, the dawn of November 10^th.