Turnabout

Harry wondered if this was what it had been like the last time he had defeated Voldemort. The sky was full of owls carrying letters from friends and relatives of those who had fled abroad, telling them they could finally come home. Strangers clapped each other on the back. Two wizards in magenta robes were dancing in the street. Most of the shops lining Diagon Alley were festooned with streamers. The street itself had been thoroughly Scourgified, nearly erasing the smell of sweat and stale firewhiskey that had permeated the air the last time Harry had been here.

Here and there, though, were reminders of the war. One of the magenta-robed wizards sported a bandage that covered his left hand. There were faint scorch marks on the sidewalk outside Ollivanders. Several of the other shops were dark, their owners either dead, gravely injured, or too grief-stricken to conduct business. One of the closed-up shops was Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes.

"Percy said that the Ministry is thinking of making the anniversary of the battle a proper holiday. No classes at Hogwarts or anything." Ginny rubbed her hands gleefully. "It won't matter too much since we'll still be there, but any day without tests or homework is a good day if you ask me."

Harry shrugged. He wasn't sure he wanted to return to Hogwarts. Whenever he pictured the Great Hall, he could only see the row upon row of dead laid out, awaiting a proper funeral. So many of his classmates would not return this year; it seemed somehow unfair that he should be able to come back like nothing had happened.

Ginny must have sensed his mood because she dropped the subject. "Thanks for coming with me. I think Mum still doesn't like me leaving the house alone." She glanced down at the bag she carried. "Though I must admit you have your uses." She cuffed him playfully on the shoulder with her free hand. "You saved me fifteen Galleons at Madame Malkin's."

Harry smiled sheepishly. Madame Malkin had taken one look at him and announced that he could have whatever he liked at no charge because "after all we all owe you so much." Harry had stammered his thanks and allowed Ginny to put her new dress robes on his bill. Madame Malkin was not the only shop owner eager to express her gratitude in a tangible way. Ron had let slip that Harry had lost his Firebolt in the battle over Little Whinging, and Quality Quidditch Supplies had sent him a new one the next day. Tom had promised him free drinks for as long as he wanted them. Harry had almost told him that he didn't want them at all, that all this gratitude was unnecessary. All he had done was allow himself to be killed. Voldemort had been killed by his own arrogance, not by anything Harry had done. No one would have believed that; they needed a hero too badly. So he had accompanied Ginny on her shopping trip and smiled and nodded as people stopped him in the street and proclaimed him the savior of wizarding Britain.

Being fawned over was almost worth it if it meant escaping the Burrow. All the Weasleys had returned home in anticipation of Fred's funeral. Mrs. Weasley cried often these days, and Harry did his best not to speak to her at all for fear that anything he said would remind her of her dead son and cause another crying fit. George seemed to be in a permanent daze. Ron was sullen and short-tempered, shouting at everything from a mixed up drink order to Hermione pointing out that his socks didn't match. Percy spoke little unless spoken to and seemed to make it a point to agree with anything anyone said, as if the slightest wrongdoing would result in him being expelled from the family.

The only constant in the Weasleys' grief seemed to be their need to reminisce about Fred. They told stories Harry had never heard. Fred had suffered from dragon pox when he was six. He and George had hidden Ron's Hogwarts letter for a week and tried to make him think he was a Squib. He had had a stuffed lion that made a roaring sound when you squeezed it until George had traded it away for a half dozen Chocolate Frogs. Everyone had smiled and laughed at the last one, but Harry stayed silent. However much the Weasleys might think of him as one of their own, there were some things he could never share.

Ginny had been his salvation. She alone did not seem a prisoner of her grief. Her brows would knit together whenever Fred's name was mentioned, and a wistful look would sometimes flicker across her face at odd moments, but she seemed otherwise unaffected. Instead, she talked to him of Quidditch or the Devil's Snare cutting Neville had purchased. It did not matter what they talked about, as long as it had nothing to do with the war. It was her idea for Harry to accompany her to purchase a few things she needed for the funeral. Ginny, it seemed, was still good at providing distractions.

Ginny waved her hand in front of his eyes, snapping him out of his reverie. "Harry? Are you listening to me?"

"What? Sure I was."

"Liar," she said, but her tone was teasing. "I said that I just need to pick up the flowers, and then we can go get something to eat."

Harry nodded. Ginny had insisted on ordering some flowers that she could place on Fred's grave at the funeral. He thought Fred would have preferred fireworks -- or a whoopee cushion. "You never did tell me how you got the money for those."

"Sold off my History of Magic notes to people studying for their OWLs. Without Hermione around, mine were the best organized." Her voice was suddenly soft, and the wistful expression was back in her eyes. "I just wish there was something else I could do for him."

The florist's shop was more crowded than Harry would have thought possible. He allowed Ginny to take his hand and lead him through the throng of people examining roses that changed color depending on the light and haggling over the price of this or that arrangement. They approached the counter. Harry's first impression was that the clerk looked like Goyle's bigger and stupider cousin. He regarded them with a vacant expression. "Can I help you?"

"Ginny Weasley, here to pick up the Needermen's Never-Wilting Lilies."

The clerk opened a battered leather bound book. He flipped towards the back and ran down the list with his finger. "Wallingham. Washford. Weatherby." He looked up. "Nope, no Weasley here. Sorry."

"Look again. They told me the order would be ready today."

The clerk glared at her. "If I told you I ain't got no Weasley here, I ain't got no Weasley here."

Ginny's eyes glittered dangerously. Harry gripped his wand beneath his robes. He had seen that look many times, though never directed at him; it usually meant that someone was about to be on the receiving end of the Bat-Bogey Hex. She sucked in a deep breath. Her nostrils flared slightly. "Fine. Then could you get some lilies for me?"

"We ain't got no Needermen's, either."

"What?" Ginny removed a crumpled page from the day's Daily Prophet from her robes and smoothed it out on the counter. She tapped a small advertisement with her finger. "It says here that you've got a special on them."

"While supplies last." He pointed to the fine print. "Look, missy, I dunno if you've noticed this, but a lot of people just died. Dead people mean funerals. Funerals mean flowers."

"I know that! My brother was one of those 'dead people.' Now give me the bloody flowers!"

"How many times do I have to tell you we don't have any flowers?" His eyes ranged over Harry. "Just because you hang around with the Chosen One doesn't make you special. My brother was killed by You-Know-Who last year, and you don't see me throwing a fit, do you? I daresay Bob died a lot better than whoever it was you lost."

Ginny clenched her fist; Harry could see the whites of her knuckles. She shook with barely suppressed rage. "Why you --"

Harry recognized an impending fight when he saw one. He grabbed Ginny by the arm. "Come on. Let's go home."

Ginny nodded. She turned on her heel and exited the shop without a word. Harry waited for a moment, hoping to give her time to calm down, then followed.

She had not calmed down. "The nerve of that guy! I should have turned him into a flobberworm. Saying his brother died better than Fred. I bet he didn't die a hero." She ground her fist into her palm. "Maybe I should turn the bastard into a flobberworm anyway. Principle of the thing, and all that."

"I don't think that would go over too well. We may be two of the Ministry's favorite people at the moment, but they'd probably still send you to Azkaban. I'm sorry you didn't get your flowers, though."

"Flowers..." Ginny paled. Her rage fled as suddenly and swiftly as it had come; it was as if someone had let the air out a balloon. The glint faded from her eyes to be replaced by a dull, haunted look. "I couldn't save him," she rasped. She seemed to have difficulty speaking. "I thought I could at least get him flowers. I can't even do that right."

She cried then -- great, wracking sobs that seemed to echo down the whole of Diagon Alley. "I miss... I miss him," she kept repeating. Harry took an involuntary step back. He had never known Ginny to cry like this before, had not even known that she was capable of it. She had always been the one who had kept his mood up. She was the one always ready with a joke or the kiss to keep his mind off his troubles. Seeing her sobbing unashamedly like this seemed somehow wrong, a violation of some unwritten law of the universe.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were red. She expected him to say something, he realized. He was supposed to comfort her somehow. He could not think of what to say. Moment after awkward moment passed. Finally, she sniffed and Apparated to the Burrow with a loud crack. Harry followed her, his face burning.

Ron and Hermione were sitting in the kitchen when he arrived. "Harry, what's going on?" asked Hermione. "When Ginny came home, it looked like she'd been crying."

"Yeah," added Ron. "She wouldn't say a word to us. She just stormed up to her room."

Harry said nothing. If it had been another girl, he might have confided in them. Hermione would have given him some useful advice. Ron would have gladly commiserated with him about how strange and confusing girls could be sometimes. Ginny was not just another girl, though. Hermione would harangue him for being an insensitive blockhead. Ron, torn between his loyalty to Harry and to his sister, would sit there quietly with and uncomfortable look on his face. He shook his head and stormed up to his room.

He tossed himself onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. What had Ginny expected him to do? He was no good at dealing with other people's grief. Hadn't his brief, disastrous relationship with Cho proven that much? He would never be the one who said just the right thing when the chips were down. That would always be Hermione or Mrs. Weasley. Ginny could go to one of them if she needed comfort. Ginny was supposed to be his refuge, not another person who looked at him with sad eyes and reminded him of all those who he had been unable to save. He had envisioned their future life together -- their jobs, their children, their home -- when he had been stuck in that tent with barely edible food. Hiding in his room while Ginny cried her eyes out when had never been part of his dreams.

So, that's it, is it? said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Hermione. You only want her when it's laughter and fun times. Some boyfriend you are.

"No," he said aloud without thinking. He looked around sheepishly at the empty room. He was losing his mind. Wonderful. Besides, it wasn't true. He lo-- cared about -- Ginny. He would do anything for her. An idea hit him. Ginny had started crying because she couldn't get the flowers she ordered. Logically, then, she would stop crying if she received the flowers. He went over to Ron's desk and retrieved a spare piece of parchment from the bottom drawer. Hastily, he scribbled a message to Neville, asking him if he could get some Needermen's Never-Wilting Lilies to Harry, and soon. He did not mention Ginny's name, but he did count out a dozen Galleons to cover Neville's cost

Harry had not yet gotten around to purchasing another owl; he would have to use Pigwidgeon. The owl made what Harry thought were supposed to be threatening movements when Harry bent to tie the message to its leg, though the effect was more comical than menacing. "It's okay," he said as he finished attaching the note, "Ron won't mind. Can you take this to Neville?" Pigwidgeon hooted and flew through the open window. Harry had done everything he could.

Well, maybe not everything. He had a sudden image of Ginny as she looked in the aftermath of the final battle with her head resting against her mother's shoulder. Should he hold her and stroke her hair as Mrs. Weasley had done? Was that what Ginny had wanted from him? He grimaced. Holding Ginny while she cried did not sound very pleasant. He remembered the wetness of Cho's tears, how salty they had tasted on his lips. He didn't know if he could go through that again.

The voice in his head returned, except this time it sounded like Dumbledore. We must all make the choice between what is right and what is easy. He had always thought that to apply to the big questions. Fight against Voldemort or hide and stay safe. Kill your enemies or spare them. Use Unforgivable Curses or don't. He had never imagined applying the statement to his love life. He sighed. At the very least, he should check on Ginny.

He crept silently towards her room and eased the door open. Ginny sat ramrod straight on the bed. Her shoulders shook, and her breath came in harsh gasps, but she was otherwise silent. Harry took a deep breath, slipped through the door, then closed it softly. The noise made Ginny jump, and she turned to face him. "Harry," she whispered.

Her face was tearstained and her skin was blotchy. She looked nothing like the girl who had once kissed him in front of the whole of Gryffindor House. Something twisted in Harry's gut. She should not be alone now. He moved toward her slowly. Despite his newfound resolve, a small part of him still wanted to run. He willed himself to sit down next to her on the bed. Harry reached over and pulled her into a fierce hug. Ginny gasped in surprise, but she did not pull away. He still could think of no words that could possibly comfort her. He doubted he ever would. Maybe, just maybe, though, this would be enough.

Two days later, Ginny laid lilies on Fred's grave.

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