Mourning Dawn (A Prelude to The Wand of Elder)

The dim structure of Hagrid's cabin stood out against the deeper darkness of the forest behind it. Candlelight flickered weakly from inside, painting the murky windows in somber hues.

Harry slowed his approach, thinking on what he could possibly say to the Weasleys in their grief. In his mind swam the image of Fred's twinkling eye and laughing face. Harry felt a lump in his throat at the thought of his dead friend.

What could he say to Mr. Weasley? Arthur would be so proud of his son and the sacrifice he had made, and he would be strong and sure for his wife. But he would be so quietly grieved by the loss, as if Fred was his only boy and not one of several.

What could he possibly say to Mrs. Weasley? She loved her many children like the sun rose and set upon each of their shoulders. When Harry thought of the idea of a mother, the image that sprang to his mind was always that of Molly. In his mind had always been the red-haired, portly, imperious, loving and wonderful woman who had always treated Harry like one of her own.

What were the words to comfort George? What can be said to a friend who had lost his alter ego and the person that had been closest to him since even before birth? Would that mischievous flame still live in George's eye, or had it died with the brother that had always inspired so much of its merriment?

And then there was Ginny. He wanted to tell her so much, and he was at a loss for words at the best of times. What would he say to her now? There were no words.

Harry shrank from the meeting awaiting him only a few dozen feet away. His feet stopped moving of their own accord. He stared at the dimly lit windows, and felt such severe trepidation. Once again, Harry felt the disconnected, muddled feeling that he had experienced by the lake that morning. The temptation to allow the numbness to overtake him, to feel neither mourning nor triumph, was strong.

Excuses sprang to his mind. This was a situation that the Weasleys might want to deal with in private. They might not welcome his presence. They needed to heal before he came around speaking wholly inadequate words of sorrow and comfort. They needed each other, not to make a fuss over Harry with his ill-timed visit.

Then, as Harry stood there in the dark, slowly convincing himself to make his way back to the castle, a flash of red caught his eye through the sooty kitchen window of the cabin. Ginny gazed out at him. For a moment he blanched, thinking that she had seen him. But he quickly realized that the light inside the cabin, and the burgeoning night without, made the windows like a mirror. Ginny was not studying him. She was studying her own face.

She straightened the collared shirt she wore, and scrubbed at her cheeks with the back of her hand, wiping away the tell-tale signs of tears. She splashed water from the sink on her face to cover her grief. She then practiced small smiles, and settled on the one that looked the most comforting. Ginny at last turned and faced someone behind her in the room.

Harry knew what had happened. Ginny had given in to her sorrow for a time, being comforted by her family. Now she was composing herself to return that comfort. The feeling of numbness disappeared instantly, and Harry suddenly had a deep urge to grab all of the Weasleys and hold them close to him.

He resumed walking to the door. Harry would not retreat from the meeting ahead. The Weasleys were the kindest people that he had known in his young but eventful life. Without their comfort and support, he could never have done what he had needed to do for all those years. They were his family by choice, if not by blood and bone.

So intent was Harry on his newfound purpose, that he only fleetingly noticed a small figure emerging from the Forbidden Forest a few hundred yards from him. Harry paused, his hand inches from knocking on the door, and watched the small boy run from the forest.

For a moment, Harry thought of going to investigate, because the figure was obviously frightened and casting glances back over his shoulder as if worried about pursuit. But then the boy stopped running. With an effort obvious even at such a distance, the boy composed himself and began walking in a measured stride towards the castle. Harry watched for a few moments and fingered his wand, but nothing emerged from the forest to chase the boy.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. The boy had probably just taken advantage of the decreased attentiveness of the school staff and decided to explore the Forbidden Forest. It was easy to lose track of time in its shadowy depths, and the boy had probably been spooked by the rapid onset of the night.

Harry turned back to the door in front of him and squared his shoulders. The Weasleys needed him right now, as he had needed them. He would not shrink from them, as they had not shrunk from him. Then he knocked on the door and he was immediately engulfed in the generous emotion of the Weasley family.

Thinking back on it later that night as he crawled into his four-poster, Harry knew he had helped, if only a little.

Charlie had clapped Harry on the back, and had seemed grateful for a newcomer to divert the sorrow that had held sway over the cabin for the past two days.

"The mood around here has just about driven him mad," Ginny had whispered to Harry as she had passed by while making her way to the kitchen to get Mrs. Weasley a drink of water.

Percy had also seemed pleased to have someone to divert his attention, and bent Harry's ear for almost an hour about the events planned for the following day. "And you'll sit with us of course, Harry!" he had said in the same uniquely Percy-ish way that Ron had done earlier.

"He's just happy to have someone who is polite enough to listen to him," Ginny had said under her breath as she moved to sit next to her father and lean her head on his shoulder.

At one point, Mr. Weasley had given Harry an unabashed hug. For a long time afterward Mr. Weasley had stood with an arm around Harry's shoulders. At that moment, Harry had felt himself the object of Mr. Weasley's fatherly pride, and had felt their mutual need for support.

"I don't know what we'd do without Dad," Ginny had observed quietly as she and Harry rearranged some of Fang's things to allow enough room for them all.

Mrs. Weasley was obviously not herself. For the first time that Harry could remember, she had not tried to fatten Harry like an engorged tick the moment she laid eyes on him. At one point she'd had a bit of a breakdown. Mrs. Weasley had clutched Harry like she could no longer clutch her dead son, and Harry had felt the depths of her grief in the strength of the embrace. When she released him, Harry found that she was not the only one wiping tears away with protestations of embarrassment. Then she had bustled off to the hearth to prepare something for them all to eat.

"That's the first time she's cooked!" Ginny had whispered as they set the table for dinner. She had then given Harry a hopeful smile.

George sat near Harry for a long time while the family all discussed with Harry the meeting with the Minister of Magic that day. George barely spoke and stared blankly at the kitchen fire. But before he moved away, George gave Harry a small grateful grin, which held a hint of its old troublesome twist.

"I hope he'll be alright. I think he will..." Ginny had mumbled uncertainly as she watched George move away. Harry had reached out and squeezed her hand reassuringly. She had squeezed back.

Through all of the long hours, and all of the emotional outpourings, and through all of the plans and recounting of events, there had been Ginny. She would suddenly appear at his elbow, or hold his hand, or whisper her commentary in his ear, or otherwise just be there with him. She would be near him, drawing comfort from his presence, and he from hers.

They did not talk really, not in any profound way. But when Harry had said his goodbyes amid the family's protests that he should stay with them in the cabin, and as he had made his way towards the door with his thanks for dinner, Ginny had gotten up and walked him out. Nobody among the Weasleys had acted as if they had even noticed anything out of the ordinary.

As Harry lay awake that night in his four-poster, he could still feel the tingle of Ginny's soft cheek against his, and the sound of her voice.

"Thank you, Harry," she had whispered, brushing the slightest kiss on the corner of his mouth. Then she had blessed him with a radiant smile, and whirled back into the cabin. Harry knew they would talk soon...when the time was right.

As he lay in bed, Harry re-lived the scenes of the eventful day. Harry had done a lot of soul searching, had felt some poignant moments, and had received high honors that day. But Harry was happiest because he had managed to help his favorite family in the world...at least a little bit.

Sleep was illusive for Harry. The day's events moved before his mind's eye, keeping him awake for a time. Yet as the clock crept into the small hours of the morning, the images eventually became disjointed, and his thoughts began to drift.

The last image was one that Harry had barely noted, but suddenly sprang to mind. Harry saw a small boy emerging from the Forbidden Forrest. The boy moved towards the castle at a dead run. Before dreams overtook consciousness, Harry incoherently wondered why Alexander Didact had been scared.

Why had the boy looked like he'd seen a ghost?