Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I'm only playing.
***
--Chapter Seventeen--
In the morning, the household wakes to a worse catastrophe; Ron's fish are dead.
"Must be all that cleaning stuff. Oh, I'm so sorry, Ron." Hermione squeezes Ron's hand. Ron seems at a loss for words. Harry fishes out the vivid carcasses with a soup ladle. He drops the first one--the brightly finned Gogol--unceremoniously into the small wooden jewellery box someone had found somewhere. Hermione nudges him and frowns. Harry sets his jaw but takes gentle care with the next deceased, one of the modest, sunny mollies. When the last one's been laid wetly in the makeshift coffin, Ron looks at Harry and Hermione.
"Do you reckon the backyard's a good place to bury them? Maybe under that burnt tree by the fence. It's begun to sprout leaves. Mum reckons it's a cherry tree, so it'll have flowers soon."
Harry lets go. "Ron, they're fish."
Hermione looks like she's about to hit him. But Ron's eyes light up.
"Yeah, you're right, Harry. You're absolutely right."
Minutes later, complete with rear and front guards made up of hospital and Ministry staff, they stand along the municipal drain behind the house. Fattened with rainwater, clear of the usual cigarette butts and empty wrappers, the drain gushes with a spring in its dip and surge. Ron squats on the cobblestones, Hermione takes his crutch. Instead of dropping the dead fish in the water, he closes the lid and places the whole box in the drain. It sinks to the bottom. Unable to keep a straight face any longer, Harry slips away.
*
He finds Fred in the attic, halfway up on a ladder to the south-facing eave. The attic smells foul, a different kind of foul than the rest of the house.
"Hey, Harry. Had your fill of mourning?" He nods towards the gabled window below which the fish are being given their last rites. He's wearing George's jumper again.
"What? Oh, yeah."
Fred climbs the rest of the way up into the roof.
"Yes, well. Funerals are like that. Bearable in moderation."
Right. This doesn't look like it's going to work.
The floor's littered with bird droppings and dirty feathers but the stink in the room is too strong for all of that. Fred disappears into the eave, feet sticking out.
Well, you don't have a choice.
"Fred, we're going to get the Order back together."
After a moment, Fred's voice reverberates through the roof cavity.
"So?"
"So, I was wondering if you want to be back in it."
After scuffling around for a while, Fred drops something near Harry's feet. A starling nest, empty and rotting.
"Yeah, okay."
Harry looks up, surprised. He was braced for questions, cutting remarks, reminders. Fred scoots out, levitating a feathery carcass off the tip of his wand.
"Can you give us a hand?" he says, nodding at an old wooden pail on the floor, his voice misshapen from trying not to breathe.
Harry lifts it up, a hand covering his nose. The small body drops into the pail with a faint squelch.
"One thing though, you're going to have to get used to Nick hanging around." Fred pockets his wand and begins to climb back down. "We found a small shop in a Muggle street not far from here. I'm going to start up the joke shop again. Nick's agreed to be a partner. We're going to have to keep it hushed with all the crap that's going on, but it's going to be, shall we say, a mixed business. A mix of Muggle and magic stuff."
Back on the floor, he looks at Harry.
Harry shrugs. "Yeah, okay."
Fred looks at a loss for words. Harry turns to hide his grin.
"You want me to take this out?" He gestures at the second make-shift coffin he's handled that day.
"No, it's fine. I've got it." He drops the nest into the pail and takes it off Harry's hands. "He can be an idiot, but he's not a bad sort, really. Once he gets rid of that ring, he'll be all right."
Not from what Hermione says.
Still, he nods and turns to leave. He's at the door when Fred's voice makes him turn back around.
"Harry, I'm sorry. About the fireworks. I had no idea they could be used that way."
Harry lifts a shoulder.
"No, really--"
"No, Fred. I reckon we're about even, don't you think?"
Not waiting for an answer, he props the door open for Fred and his pail and walks downstairs.
*
Ginny proves harder to find.
Almost like she's avoiding me.
He bumps into Sally on the third floor and scribbles down directions. The house continues to bustle. He wanders into the kitchen where Mrs Weasley pounces on him and holds on for a long time. She turns out to be the easiest re-recruitment to the Order. After about fifteen minutes of searching and dodging well-wishers and peeping toms, he finds Ginny changing sheets in a room at the farthest end of the second floor.
'Hi," he says, grabbing the billowing corner of a bedspread.
"Hi, Harry."
Her hair's tied back, her face thin and set. A mask. Harry decides not to dally.
"Ron said you're going away."
She bends to tuck her end of the sheet in. Harry lifts the mattress, tugs at the bedspread and finds his corner too short.
"Didn't waste much time, did he?"
"Ginny, why?"
She brushes at couple of creases then grabs two pillows off a chair.
"Why not?"
She turns to the next bed, shaking out a fresh, crackling sheet. Harry picks up a corner again, tugs a bit too hard and ends up with the whole sheet in his arms. He straightens his glasses. Ginny turns to the third bed, leaving him to take care of the middle one by himself. Moments later, Harry surveys a perfectly made bed. Funny how his years with the Dursleys never seem to go to waste.
Suddenly, a pillow is fluffed a little too hard; he turns around. Her eyes glint from across the room.
"Do you ever get the feeling that someone's always trying to write you into the background? No, you can't join the Order, Ginny, you're too young. No, you can't fight Ginny, you're too small. No, you can't do what your brothers do Ginny, you're just going to have to sit and watch. Like it's not your story, you're not even a proper part of it. You're just…there, to fill the background."
Then she laughs.
"Well, no, not you, I don't imagine you know what it's like."
"Ginny--"
"I've always had to fight with my brothers for anything I want. This is going to sound horrible, Harry, but you didn't come here for small talk. It's not that I'm happy that most of my brothers are dead but I don't have to fight as much. And then Ron came back home. So just because I was there, and he wasn't, and therefore he's precious, she latches on to him and Ron's all full of how Mum's all worn down when that's what she's been like the whole time! Ever since the end of the war, that's what she's been like. Except neither of them are there to see. Ron's always in here and Fred comes and goes. But Ginny's always there so no one knows."
She turns around and grabs another sheet, though there are no more beds to be made.
"And I know about you and Hermione."
Harry plonks down on the nearest bed.
A smile twists her dainty, defined features. "Once again a minor role, Ginny. Whoops."
"Ginny--" he begins again, but she shakes her head. The venom leaves her voice suddenly.
"It's all right. If it has to be that way, it has to be that way." She looks around with the bedspread in her arms and, realizing there's no use for it, stows it away in the cupboard nearby. There's something so pitiful in the gesture that he has to look away for a moment.
"Ron said you met someone in Amsterdam."
She pauses, her back to him.
"I lied."
Harry leans forward and, sighing, balances his elbows on his knees.
"I tried to explain to them why I wanted to go away, but it was just too much trouble. So I lied. And they bought it, without batting an eyelid. Shows how well my brothers think of me. Ginny scores wherever she goes, no surprise to anyone."
"Ginny, I don't know what to say to you, but I'm sure they don't mean it that way."
She doesn't reply. Picking up the laundry basket full of the stripped sheets and pillowcases, she makes for the door.
"Thanks for the chat, Harry. I've got to go."
"Stay," he says, getting to his feet.
"What?"
"Stay in England. I'll make it worth your while."
He strides over and holds the door open for her.
"Listen, Ginny, we're going to get the Order back together. There's so much to be done. We…I came to ask you if you want to join us. There's not a lot of us left, so we need everyone."
She stands in the corridor and looks at him through narrowed eyes. "There's not a lot of you left, and that's when you want me?"
"Ginny, plea--"
"I'll think about it."
She hoists the basket up to her hip. He watches her red hair sway all the way down the corridor, then turns back into the room to redo the bed with the shoddily tucked-in sheet.
*
He meets Ron and Hermione at the front door. The hallway below has been turned into a reception area, presided by two medistaff. Signs have gone up on the wall, directing visitors to different floors. The troll-leg and mirror have been removed. A calendar on the opposite wall marks five days since the fire.
Hermione pauses just as he opens the door. "Oh, I forgot to ask Sally for directions to Scrimgeour's house."
Harry pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket. "I got it. She was upstairs."
Hermione scans the hastily drawn map as they step out. Ron hobbles ahead. Harry's immensely relieved to see him recovered so quickly from his loss.
"Right. It's not too far." Hermione shoves the map in her pocket. She slips her hand in his, looks up, and smiles. He lifts her knuckles to his lips. The street's slick surface returns the sunlight thrown on it. The light seems somehow thicker, more resonant, the particles of soot still wafting about adding to its depth. All around, it's still strangely silent, except for the sound of rainwater rushing in the drainage system like an underground spring.
They walk along in silence, Harry's mind still on Fred and Ginny.
"Ron?"
"Yep?"
Ron turns and waits for them to catch up, an elbow on his crutch.
Harry scratches his chin. "How are you all--I mean, with your Dad not there and Fred's shop gone, how are you all…coping?" That sounded stupid, Harry. You should've talked to Hermione first. "I mean--"
Ron squints through the sun, then gives a short laugh. "Oh, you're wondering about money. Well, Dad's pension comes through. And…well, with not so many of us anymore, it's quite enough to go around. But once all this is over, I'll have to find something."
They turn a corner. Harry looks sideways at Ron.
"You can join the Ministry too. As an Auror."
Ron laughs again. "Are you kidding?"
"What?" says Hermione. "Mad-eye Moody had only one leg."
"Who said it's about the leg?"
Harry groans silently. Not always the diplomat, my Hermione.
"Oh. Of course, I didn't mean--well, then, what's it about?" she demands.
Ron watches his uneven feet. "Okay, don't laugh at me but…I'm sort of enjoying this, you know." He gestures back towards Grimmauld Place. "The running of this place. Making sure things work, moving things, people around to get the job done--"
"You mean bullying," says Hermione. Harry glances at her, taking in the hint of laughter in her voice. But Ron seems oblivious.
"I do not bully, Hermione!"
"Yes, you do. I've seen how you speak to those Auror interns Scrimgeour's given you."
"Well, they do take some firm handling, in case you haven't noticed. They're so itty bitty but think that just because they have a sodding badge they can take on the world."
"And then I've seen how you lord it over the medistaff--"
"I do NOT lord it over--"
"And how when all else fails, you sweet-talk Janice and Martha and the rest of the senior staff into doing exactly what you want--"
Ron appeals to Harry. "Will you listen to her? I'm not like that!"
"So you're great for the job."
"What?"
"Yeah, if you don't watch out they'll start paying you for it."
"What job? What are you talking about?"
Hermione grins, swinging their entwined hands. "They've been looking for a trainee admin person. Someone will come around to have a chat soon. They love you. Martha thinks you're rather charming, Malcolm's impressed at how you're handling the medi-interns. They're his graduating class and he called them a bunch of swollen-headed twits. Oh, but Robin--that really pretty blonde who takes care of the second floor--said you need a haircut. She also said she'd be happy to give you one. But unfortunately, I don't think she will."
"What? Why? I mean--"
"Because she gave this really funny giggle when she said it, kind of like a twitter--Harry, you know what I mean, girls do that around you--and um, Luna happened to be right there. She said she liked Ronald's hair just the way it is."
Harry hoots with laughter. Ron's cheeks blaze, but after a moment, he chuckles grudgingly. They turn another corner and cross the road into the Kings Cross station.
The fire was limited to Diagon Alley and two surrounding streets this time, but the city's taken the cue and fled. The green mesh still nests in parts of the station and the blackened walls haven't been scrubbed and painted over. A few uniforms pace up and down the foyer, the main entrance cordoned off. People still straggle in and out, but no one lingers. Along the pavement, fleets of pigeons rise at irregular intervals, scatter, then land back all together. A grey-white curtain, swelling through a near-deserted house. As they make their way to the ticketing counter, Ron's crutch echoes freely. The glass at the counter catches a shadow, and Harry glimpses a reflection of their three faces. He turns around. Hermione still looks tired and Ron stifles a yawn. He himself still feels stiff, beset with an urge to roll shoulders every now and then as if to make sure they're there. The sallow lighting, the colour of curdling milk, drips over their faces. Eyes look too bright, worry lines too deep. What a sorry bunch we are.
But this is what he had. Not a cast of thousands, only a few broken, beaten souls who nevertheless wanted to stand with him, which is all that mattered. And more who aren't sure, and those who he isn't sure about. Metal to turn to gold, water to wine.
--end chapter sixteen--