CHAPTER THIRTEEN- The Sound of a Sigh
Relief is a freeing emotion. There are things to do, things to say, things to be, and in the relief of pardon, these things can be done with ease.
The greatest thing a witch or wizard can learn is that there are many magical things in this world that have nothing to do with wands or spells or charms.
There are magical things in this world that are universal-Muggle or Magic, man or woman, witch or wizard.
We, in our own world, in our own way, are not superior. Magic is not the sole property of those who can levitate a feather or change their appearance at will.
Magic is the sole property of the heart.
~~~
She hadn't been there for months, hadn't even dared to walk near the grounds, to look upon it from afar, hadn't even allowed herself to think of it.
Thinking of it should have brought Ginny at least a few good memories; it was there she'd had her first boyfriend, her first kiss, gained her first real friend outside of the family. She'd also spent her first year at this school in torment, in fear, in long moments of blank forgetfulness.
But even though Tom Riddle's influence had scarred her deeply and scared her badly, he was not the reason she could not bear to look upon Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
As she gingerly stepped on the grounds, her hands shoved deep in the pockets of her robes, she closed her eyes and let the memories gather behind her eyes, painting a picture as detailed and unmerciful as the reality had been.
Charlie and Bill had been just there, fighting side by side, eyes blazing, mouths grim.
Her Mum and Dad had split up, and the look that had passed between them had been so intimate, so full, that even in the preparation for battle, Ginny had felt her cheeks flush in pleased embarrassment.
Percy had followed Arthur as though determined to right the wrongs he'd long since incurred, and the twins had gone with Molly, their jests dried up, their humor momentarily banked in the cold breezes of war.
And then there had been Ron, Ron as part of the trio, the triumvirate of the gifted of Hogwarts. Ron and Hermione had provided cover for Harry, bright, hectic spots of color burning their cheeks, and the sick, sure knowledge they might not make it burning in their eyes.
And then Harry had been all but swallowed up by the castle, and the remaining two were left to fight.
And as she walked forward, Ginny stood in the center of it all, where her brother had faced the man she had unwittingly bound herself to save.
It had also been in this spot, as Ron had lain writhing on the ground, where Neville had fallen for the final time.
And this time, when she saw Draco's face in her mind's eye, she saw desperation in those warrior's eyes, the look of a man who not knows he has lost-he knows he is lost.
Scrubbing the heels of her hands up her cheeks to stem the tears that had yet to fall, Ginny blinked the memories from her eyes and stepped through the front doors of Hogwarts.
The castle was as it had always been, and yet it had changed-as it always had. The building, Ginny thought, had long since developed a mind of its own, and though she, like all the students, had trained herself not to look up at the sound, she could hear stairways far above her shifting, changing the architecture of the building yet one more time.
Only a few students milled about in the hallways, the peace of the Saturday morning yet to be disturbed by Quidditch games and Hogsmeade trips. Splashes of color flicked to her eyes, the house colors, the pride of each house, and as a sharp-eyed young girl in a green jumper passed her, Ginny felt her heart reach out in pity.
In these days just after war, how misunderstood was a young Slytherin likely to be?
And were there even very many of them to be had?
"Excuse me, miss, can I…" The voice was familiar despite the months of separation, and Ginny raised her eyes to greet the new Potions Master.
"Hello, 'Mione."
Her hair was drawn up tightly, making her look more than a bit like Professor McGonagall, but the comely features were unchanged, the uncertain smile Hermione had always seemed to carry, so less sure was she of her personality than of her intelligence. Though her smile was shy, her actions were sure, and she enveloped her friend in a hug.
"Ginny," she said simply, holding tightly to the girl who had all but been her sister before everything had gone so horrible awry. "I've missed you," she said, and when she drew back, her eyes were shining. Intuiting as she always had that Ginny had something on her mind, the young teacher grabbed Ginny's hand and took her at a half-run through the halls, bringing back images of two girls, still naïve, still quite happy, running through the halls after a boy with green eyes and a boy with a face full of freckles.
Instead of leading Ginny to the dungeon where the Potions Master's quarters had once been, Hermione came to a room on an upper level that was only adequately furnished-save for the bookshelves lining every inch of the walls.
Hermione sat, knowing Ginny would sit in her own time. It was almost hard to look at her old friend, hard to look at the changes, the age that had crept into the brown eyes, the thinness of the gold-freckled cheeks, the slight tenseness around the mouth. She'd wanted to seek her out-needed to, needed a friend as badly as she ever had-but Harry and Ron had both warned her away.
Give her time, they'd said of Ginny, and Hermione couldn't be certain they'd given her the right advice.
"I wish you'd come sooner," she said matter-of-factly, but when Ginny's eyes widened, Hermione waved her hand. "It isn't as though it matters now. Generally speaking, time past is time past, and there's no use holding regrets."
"Or grudges," Ginny said slowly, easing herself onto the edge of the burgundy-covered bed. "I shouldn't have stayed away so long."
"Well," Hermione said, "You're here now, aren't you? Let's do some catching up."
It should have taken hours to catch up, should have taken hours for the friends to tell one another about the changes in their lives. But the most complex of situations can often be boiled down to the bare necessities, stark feelings.
When Ginny left Hogwarts, it was barely an hour after she'd arrived. She walked out the doors and headed straight to Azkaban.
~~~
She was more than a little ashamed of herself as she walked in the doors of the prison, checking her wand at the front. Ginny had never dreamed of how much she'd let slip past her while she'd started her habit-a habit Hermione gently informed her could have been seen as an obsession.
She'd missed Hermione getting hired at Hogwarts, and she'd definitely missed the relationship that had apparently been burgeoning between Harry and Hermione for the past months.
And worst of all, Ginny mused as she strode down the hall, somewhere along the line she'd completely missed the mark on Ron. Ron, it seemed, was doing his level best to make time with one of her coworkers-Cho Chang.
It had felt good to catch up with the harmless, normal gossip, to hear usual words and commonplace facts.
But the whole while, she'd had a yen to be here, with him.
There was still so much of his life she hadn't heard yet, and she still hadn't a clue how she was supposed to live up to the responsibility he'd bestowed upon her.
When she approached the cell, her heart jammed in her throat, her breath backed up in her lungs on a short, amazed gasp.
She'd never seen him do anything but sit up, impeccably postured and seemingly stiff, staring either at the wall, the floor, or her.
Today, though, on the first weekend visit she'd ever made, Draco Malfoy was sleeping.
She would have expected him to sleep rigidly, to appear in repose as he did in his waking moments. But he sprawled on the narrow cot as though paused in the middle of a fitful nap, one arm lying above his head, the other stretched along his side, palm turned up as though seeking something. Shocks of pale hair fell across his brow, obscuring his closed eyes and lending him a tousled, youthful look.
Stepping forward, transfixed, Ginny extended one hand, palm toward the glass, her palm toward the resting man, her breath finally slipping out in a catchy sigh as she pressed her fingertips to the glass.
Whether it was the impossibly quiet sound of her sigh or the infinitesimal change of pressure her fingers caused, Draco woke with a start, going from the prone position to his familiar sitting position instantly, his eyes focusing clearly on hers, silver to brown through the glass.
She'd never been there on a weekend. He could think of little else as he studied her eyes, studied the pale ovals of her fingers on the glass, the soft look in those brown eyes, the mouth that had sighed to him in the depths of his sleep.
Her arrival had skewed his sense of time, so attuned was he to her arrivals. Five arrivals a week, each on a weekday, each occurring at the same time.
He stood and crossed the cell, his actions swayed by the oddity of her arrival, and sat down on the floor only inches from the glass.
"Trying to be unpredictable, Weasley?" he said negligently, as though their rhythm had not been disturbed, as though their behaviors-and the emotions that motivated those behaviors-had not somehow changed, shifted. "Did you need something?"
"I heard something today," she said, sitting down in her chair, bringing her face closer to his despite the ever-present barrier. "And I thought you should hear it. Time past is time past."
"How very obvious of you," he said mockingly, but the sobriety in her eyes kept him quiet, filed down the edge of his words.
"And there's no use holding regrets," she added as though he'd said nothing. "Let's do some catching up."
~~~
What is trust?
Strictly speaking, I suppose it's just the knowledge, the faith, that someone or something is right, that they are true and honest. Trust is the knowledge of predictability and protection, strictly speaking.
But in reality, when the trust you're seeking is more than just black on white, ink on a parchment, trust is about risk.
Trust is about opening yourself up to the most horrible things in the world, to all the things you fear in the dark and all the things you worry about in the light, and then casting those fears and worries away because you know, in this instance, they will not come to you.
Trust is all about hurt, and daring to let that hurt happen.
What a trusting fool I was.
What a trusting fool I am.