Chapter Text
Ron Weasley tries to listen to Mrs MacGonagall speech about how this year of high school will be such a defining and important part of their life, but his gaze slides ever so frequently to Hermione’s hair, peeking from the front row where she’s sitting.
Her curls are more defined than he remembered, maybe a little shorter too. She often cuts them during the summer to better let them grow all year long.
It’s only been a little more than a month since the last time he saw her but it feels like years. He missed that little frown in between her eyebrows when she’s focused in class, missed her laugh and dry jokes. He still misses her presence near them. The third act of their trio, the conclusion, the stability, the reason.
When he’s not looking at her, he looks at Harry. Fast and small looks, checking if he’s doing okay.
But Harry’s not okay of course. Sometimes it feels as if he’s sitting next to a void and not next to his best friends. Empty. Dark. Vacant.
He also misses him.
With a sight Ron lets his gaze wander further to their left, outside of this bubble he and his best friend are stuck into, a haze of feelings sticking to their skin, a pog of sadness and angst.
Behind Hermione, who had gone straight to the front row only throwing them a nasty look when they appeared this morning, is the whole posh gang. The three of them, when they were still close to Hermione, liked to call them the Dolls. Pretty. Rich. Goody two shoes and nasty to everyone who looks at them twice.
On the second row is a boy Ron doesn’t recognise, he’s got brown hair that falls like feathers on his high cheekbones, and dull black eyes emphasised by dark circles. Blaise Zabini, however, seems to know him as his gaze is fixed on his neck from where he’s sitting behind the boy. He’s on the football team with Harry and Ron. Or used to be since Harry had decided to quit this year, Ron following.
Next to Blaise is Daphne muttering to him, her lips moving ever so slightly, her gaze never leaving the teacher in front of them. It could pass as discreet if Blaise didn’t snicker at every other sentence. At one of his too loud giggles he earns a soft push in the shoulder from Pansy sitting behind him.
Pansy Parkinson he knows. Her squared black hair and home-cut fringe he knows. Her sharp gaze, clinking nails on the table, her tailored outfits, her cigarette smoke smell he knows. And next to her, always by her side, is the last piece of the Dolls, the Head, the main jewels of the tiara. And the worst piece of shit Ron’s ever had the pleasure to meet. Draco Malfoy.
His gaze goes farther, down the other side of the class, passing known faces, Neville there, Seamus and Dean drawing down on a piece of paper here. It lends briefly on Parvati and Lavender, chatting animatedly and showing each other something on their phones, and on Ginny and Luna, who are both from the year below but shares their form groups this year. It’s not the first time he had to share something with a sibling but it wasn’t a pleasant discovery to find out his sister will be hanging around all the time now, especially with how noisy she had been all summer.
Finally his blue eyes stick back to Hermione.
He sights again.
When the bell rings and they’ve all finally registered, the other students begin to slowly empty the classroom, all leaving for their own classes. Ron stands up first, picking both their backpacks and waits for Harry to land back to earth before gently resting a hand on his shoulders to guide him to the exit.
Here, next to the door, Hermione waits for them. Her gaze is furious, and no one can handle that look of disappointment and anger without flinching. Ron does his best to not seem nervous. Her brow is furrowed, her dark cheeks tinted for a flush of anger and she’s playing with one of the black curls that falls down on her shoulder. She’s beautiful when she’s angry. Even more when she’s happy.
When they come nearer to them she makes a movement to grab Harry by the arms but he dodges it and her hand stays in the air, as she looks at him, eyes widened in hurt. He looks at her back, his eyes not faltering. Ron shifts on his feet, uncomfortable.
Harry and Hermione had always been more kin to siblings than friends, always hugging, touching, linking arms, playing with hairs, understanding each other in half-sentences they never bothered to finish. Ron used to be jealous of it.
Hermione looks away and the hurt reshapes itself on her face as anger. Finally she starts to speak and it’s in a pressing voice.
“What is this ? I’ve been worried sick for you, not one text, not one call ? And for the past month ? Even your sister told me she didn’t know what was up with you two. It's like you disappeared off the face of the planet ? And Harry your—” She stops, her gaze fixated on Harry’s forehead. He lowers his head as if an invisible fringe could fall and hide the ugly red scars but his hair had been buzzed and is not even long enough to curl like it used to.
The familiar feeling of uselessness comes back to Ron and he responds in a clipped voice : “Sorry, we’ve been busy.”
It’s not a real lie. He feels like he had just spit in Hermione's face nonetheless. His arms itches once forwards and he wants nothing more than to grab her, cradle her close to him, apologise into sweet nothings whispered in her ear, nest her here forever until a smile replaced the ugly frown she now wore.
Harry looks at him and Ron sees guilt in his face too.
He knows Harry doesn’t really want him to lie but he promised he’d do it. That night when Harry cried in his arms, begged for nothing to change, for everything to stay the same and that Ron promised that it didn’t have to. That no one would have to know.
Hermione sees that exchanged glance and understands that she won’t get any answers soon. Her eyebrows do this complicated twist they do when she’s about to cry.
“I see.” she whispers, she always does it when she doesn’t want people to hear her voice breaking.
Ron feels his heart break into clean parts just as Harry begins to move swiftly towards the other side of the corridor.
Harry winces under Hermione's gaze, her judgement, her questions and the guilt he feels. He doesn’t want to lie to her, he doesn’t want Ron to lie to her. He also never wants anyone looking at him ever again. He feels his thoughts hurl and unfurl far away from this conversation and his gaze diverge to the other side of the corridor.
And falls on Draco.
His eyes are fixed on Harry’s head and he knows what’s nested there. He’s seen it enough times in the mirror. The buzzed down hair revealing his sharp jaw, his angry eyes and splashed down his forehead the nastiest scar.
It’s red, and gruesome, cuts descending like the branches of lightning from his skull to his right eye, fragmenting his eyebrow. Like something exploded here.
It’s ugly, and still hot and sometimes Harry thinks, in the dead of night when the sleep can’t take him away from his raw heart, that he can feel it pulsing against his finger.
In two rapid strides he’s on the other side of the corridor. In only one movement Draco is hitting the wall with his back, Harry’s forearm pressing down his neck.
“What are you looking at Malfoy?” he snarls in the boy's face and suddenly recoils at the closeness. He can now see that Draco’s eyes are grey with just a speck of blue in them. He can see them widen and his lips parting from the shock. He sees it all and his blood thrums with it, with anger.
Anger is better than nothing.
Ron follows him and immediately grabs him back by the shoulders. It’s only been a month but it’s almost tradition at this point. Their little play. The dog and the leash.
And Harry feels like one, a dog, a rabid beast, just an angry mouth and angry teeth. He feels it and feels relief in letting it engulf him. He presses a little more against Draco’s neck before being pulled back.
“What the fuck Potter!” screams Pansy, having recovered from the rapid burst of anger and she pushes Harry farther away. Draco doesn’t move, only raises a hand to his throat, his breathing coming in rasps.
Harry’s focus snaps from him to Pansy, he looks at her scrunched up nose and wants to smash it, he wants to smash it so vividly that for one second he thinks he’s done it already, and can see the blood already running down her chin. But Ron grabs him more firmly and ushers him away.
He can feel the blood beat down his ears and his ears are filled with the sound of the waves of anger growing in him. His fists itches and shakes from the absence of resolution to the spike of adrenaline he just felt. Ron still holds him firmly by one arm, and he’s taller, stronger than Harry will ever be. Still, he finally manages to shake himself free as they walk away, shaking the freckled hands from himself.
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, I know.” says Ron and it’s crazy how true he can make it sound. Not mocking, not too sweet, only pure belief. To seal it he laughs a little and puts a hand down Harry’s neck, shaking him a little, like he’s the one telling lies, or an inside joke. Ron smiles calmly, like everything is right. It calms and angers Harrys, his head split between the two feelings. They walk away, and he looks behind him just once.
Hermione is looking at them, her eyes wide and shocked, her arms tightly holding her books. Next to her Pansy seems appalled and shakes her head still, making her hair whirl against her cheeks. She speaks what he could swear are insults to them but Harry and Ron can’t hear her.
The only one not looking at him is Draco. His eyes are fixated on the ground, one hand still resting against his paled neck, flushed from the event.
Harry fists itches again.
Pansy is a lot of things. She knows she can be mean, bitchy and a huge gossip. But she’s no snitch. So when Hermione asked them if they were going to tell the teachers what had happened with a small voice it hadn’t been difficult to promise her that they wouldn't. Draco had furrowed his brow but followed her lead.
She had never seen Hermione look so small. So confused.
Hermione was also a lot of things. She was smarter than all. She was dedicated, strong, a bit of a know-it-all but it suited her. She wasn’t small.
“What the hell happened to his hair anyway ? Maybe that’s why he’s so angry, because he’s bald now and we all have very pretty hair.” She knows it’s not the reason. But it feels like killing two birds with one shot, making Hermione laugh and complimenting her hair at the same time.
As a token from her achievement she earns a wet laugh to her right. Hermione’s eyes are shining with tears and she’s sniffing a little. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know he had cut them.”
“Not the only things that’s been cut.” says Draco and Pansy is divided between happiness from hearing him finally talk and annoyance at him raising the single subject the whole class has been avoiding since Harry’s entered it this morning. The scar. She rolls her eyes at him.
“What ? I’ve almost been punched in the face for looking at it, I feel like it gives me the right to speak about it now.”
He massages his throat again.
Hermione looks at him, and seeming to finally realise who she’s speaking to, she swiftly wipes her eyes. “I should go.” she mutters before going in the opposite direction the two boys had gone, her fast steps echoing in the now empty hallway.
As soon as she’s gone Pansy turns to Draco, eyeing him up. He raises an eyebrow at her.
“You thought it was hot, didn’t you ?” She snarks at him and he hides his face in his hand, a muted string of curses managing the path between his pressed fingers. “You’re so messed up.”
Finally he lifts his gaze to her again and when he sees her smiling chokes on her name, “Pansy!”
“What ? Tell me it’s not the truth. Anyway that was…something. Are you alright ?” she asks him and she can see his cheeks flush as his gaze fluctuates between her and the other end of the corridor, the one Harry exited mere seconds ago.
“Yeah, peachy, thanks for asking.” He groans and she giggles as he grabs his bag from the ground and crosses arms with her.
They make a slow walk to their next classes. She knows him and that’s how they function the best. A bit of teasing, lots of silences, and few confessions. Although enough confessions from him to get her to know about this ravaging crush he had on Harry since they were kids. He had told her in year 8, after they had been locked in a closet for seven minutes by the others in a game of spin the bottle. They had kissed and then, in a strangled voice, he had confessed to her that he was gay. So much for her first kiss, but oh well. And since then they’d been attached by the hip.
Time passed and now their final years of high school pressed down on their shoulders. They had spent their last summers before university chatting, going out and laughing like they were kids again knowing soon they’d be busy moving out in way too small, way too pricey flats. That’s where they had drawn a plan for the both of them. A goal before the end of the final year.
They would both talk to their crush. Talk and with hard work maybe even seduce. And if they failed so be it but at least they would have tried before going.
It seemed that it wasn’t starting so bad as Pansy had already complimented Hermione once and Draco had his first physical interaction with Harry of the year. So really, if you ask her it’s a small victory.
But Draco frowns and whispers to her as they pass other students in the corridor. “I’ve never seen him like that. I’m not a stalker or anything, but—”
“You’re definitely a stalker.” She laughs and he gently pushes her with a shoulder, their arms still tied together.
“Shush. I mean, he seems so different. Do you think something happened over the summer ? An accident maybe ?” It’s not a bad hypothesis. She’s not an idiot, she can only presume that the hair was cut short for healing the scar, it looked a bit like a glass had exploded near his forehead. Maybe he’d gone on a fight? wouldn’t be so surprising with this new temper he had demonstrated just now. But she can feel Draco getting worried and she hates to see him down like this.
“Maybe he’s hit himself in the head too strongly with one of those football balls and has gone cray-cray.” she jokes. He sighs and she can’t tell if she’s vexed him or not. Sometimes the way she has of never taking anything seriously pisses people. Rarely Draco though.
“That’s a nasty scar for a foot ball.” he quietly muses.
“Mmh. So, what are you gonna do ?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t matter so much right now. Maybe I should wait a little, he seems—” he shakes his head and she looks at him with widened eyes. He couldn’t be backtracking on their year-goal so quickly right ?
“Is that just an excuse that I hear, Draco Leo Malfoy ?” she asks, taking offence of him letting her down so fast. She knew him. She knew he would need her to push him a little at some point but she hadn’t guessed that it would happen on their very first day.
“Stop calling me that. Pansy Persephone Parkinson—” Ugh she hates her middle name, it’s so pretentious. “No it’s not. I’ll just wait a little.”
“Yeah.” She favours this instantly. Just waiting a little. As they arrive in front of their classroom she stops them before they enter it. There is no gossiping in chemistry class, everyone knows this, Mr. Snape is one of the stricter teachers of the school. “He seemed angry didn’t he ?” she asks him. He knows Harry better than anyone after all.
“Yes.” His gaze gets this faraway look again.
“I’d never seen Harry angry before.” She pushes a little.
And it’s true. She’s never really been friends with him but she’s known Harry for almost her whole life. They’ve all known each other for their whole life. Harry’s friend with everyone. Harry’s always laughing at parties and coming with drinks and cakes his mother baked. Harry’s captain of the football team and Blaise says that they always win thanks to him and that he’d rather die than play a game without him. One time, when Pansy’s mother hadn’t cut her bangs in a long time, and the wispy strands had begun to fall into her eyes during a test, Harry had quietly taken two hair clips from his bag and handed them to her. “I use them during training, so they don’t fall in my face. You can keep them, I have others.” he had said with a smile when she had questioned him.
She knows what roles she and her friends must be taking in his eyes. She doesn’t really care. She doesn’t think of herself as a mean girl or a bad person. But she always thinks of Harry as a good one.
Draco looks at her in the eyes but doesn’t answer. He turns and she follows him into the classroom. It’s only as Mr.Snape enters the classroom behind them, and as they settle in their seats that he whispers in her ear.
“Me neither.”
It occurs to her later, at lunch when they meet with the others that maybe they wouldn’t be the only one to have noticed the sudden change in the golden boy. Seems like, in fact, what everyone talks about lately is Harry Potter’s sudden change of personality and of forehead integrity.
“I heard someone say that a murderer tried to axe his head off.” started Blaise, unaware of how Draco gaze had dropped to his lunch.
“That can’t be true! You know what the girls in my French class were saying ?” chimed in Daphne, always the first to play Blaise games. “That he had stolen a car from the cop—and got into an accident. Fled through the windscreen and for twenty metres before he met a tree.”
“That one is definitely wrong, why would he steal a police car ? He’d never do that.” Pansy hears herself say. It’s not like she’s too good for a good gossip sesh. She’ll own it up to Draco later.
“Okay so what about the one where he tried to save a girl from being attacked by a wild deer ?” says Blaise again.
“A deer?” asked Draco, finally raising his head from his sandwich. Oh, maybe none of them are too good for a gossip session then.
“Yeah, it was a crazy deer.” Tells Blaise with a devilish grin, widening his eyes and taking a mocking spooky voice. Daphne giggled to his side.
“What the fuck is a crazy deer—”
“I heard that you were some of the most awful gossip I've ever met.” chimed in Theo, causing a wave of rolled eyes except from Blaise whose grin just grew wider as he leaned across the table to look the other boy in the eyes.
“What about you Theo ? What’s your theory ?” he says, voice low and honeyed. Pansy has never seen a more obvious man in her life. But Theo’s face stays flat and he responds in a cold tone.
“I think that if even Granger doesn’t know—which she doesn’t, seeing how she was looking at them two earlier—Weasley must have a damn good reason to shut his mouth. He would have told her otherwise, the man is so infatuated it’s sickening.” he sneers.
Does Blaise infatuation with you sickens you just as much ? She wants to snap at him but she bites her lips. It’s not the first time one of her idle remarks caused by her jealousy around everything Hermione related could cause their little group to explode and she’s learned to shut her mouth now that she’s older.
Still, she sees Daphne throw her a glance and they both smile. Blaise's crush on Theo is no secret. She’s practically sure he tries to hide it, but he fails more than not.
The only unsure variable in this little flirt is Theo. Sometimes she thinks he knows, that it’s so plain that he couldn’t not see it, even if he tried. But he never says anything, never divert his gaze, never blushes. Deaf, blind, mute. And then there’s time where she thinks that he’s being too oblivious. And that he knows but he just chooses to not act on it, maybe for Blaise’s sake.
“But Weasley knows something right ?” asks Blaise, his eyes never darting from Theo’s mouth where they landed a few seconds earlier. The bait is too good not to take and Pansy opens her mouth to say something, he looks like a man dying of thirst, it’s pathetic. But Daphne discreetly knocks her knee against his and he advert his gaze.
“I think so.” Pansy chooses to say instead. “They’re always together, I never see one without the other. Quite the double act, Harry and Ron.” Daphne eyes her up and silently repeats “Harry and Ron ?” but Pansy’s never been good with that whole surname stuff the other likes to do. She once saw Ron piss himself at recess when they were four. She’s not going to start calling him Weasley now.
“More like a triple act. Granger hangs out with them a lot too.” adds Draco throwing her a teasing wink.
“Yes, well it doesn’t seem so anymore. Maybe she’ll have to start hanging out with me then.” She chips of contentment, stealing his sandwich and taking a bite before he has the time to throw himself across the table to steal it back.
“Still keen on wooing her this year then ?” asks Theo, simply dodging Draco flying arms as he tries to take his food back. Her crush on Hermione is no secret anymore, she had decided that if she was beginning to seriously court the girl, the first step was putting as many allies to her side as she could. Draco had strictly refused to do the same, of course.
“Yes, and I’ve had a head start. I told her a compliment about her hair.” The blonde boy finally snatches the coveted snack from her and she pouts a little.
“Uh, when ?” snarls Draco to her, gripping his sandwich more fervently now.
“When I told her we had nice hair ? She was included in the lot, you know.” she explains and Daphne and Blaise start to laugh.
“So you’ve complimented her by telling her you had nice hair ?” The blonde girl snickers and Pansy feels a bit ruffled by her lack of trust in her.
“No, that’s not—well yes, but so does she, so—” Even Theo lets a small laugh escape his lips and that’s when she admits defeat. “Well maybe it wasn’t that good of a compliment. But still, now that Harry and Ron are all busy with their secret adventures against ‘crazy deers’ she’s free to hang out with us!”
“She wouldn’t. She probably has other friends.” says Draco, still bitter as he stares at his half-eaten lunch with disappointment, no longer touching it. Pansy sticks her tongue out at him, feeling a distant pang of guilt at the sight.
“Oh, speaking of the devil…” says Blaise and they all raise their heads towards the entrance of the dining hall where Hermione stands. Pansy feels her heart fasten at the sight of the other girl, her furrowed brow and sad little pout. She wants nothing more than to cross the room to go there and help ease that worry in her eye. Maybe with a kiss even ?
She starts to rise in her seat, hesitating to fully raise her arms and call the other girl to her.
Before she has a chance to ponder what she wants to do exactly she sees Parvati Passi and Lavender Brown from their form group call Hermione’s name from where they’re sitting near the window. She hesitates a moment before walking towards the honey blonde afro and the cascade of dark hair waiting for her. Pansy sighs and sits back.
“So much for a head start.” snorts Draco.
Pansy launches herself at him and bites in his sandwich still held in his hand before he has the time to react.
Something is up with Harry. It’s not only this scar and buzzed hair, not only his angry looks and closed fists. It’s not only that Ron’s had disappeared all summer, spending nights after nights at his, ignoring their mother's invitations to have Harry’s over.
It’s something else. Something that runs deeper. And Ginny’s obsessed with finding out what it is. She’d do everything. She had gone through Ron’s stuff when he was out, stole his phone when he was under the shower, everything. Nothing weird through his pictures, or texts. His discussion with Harry seems as normal as ever, a string of “I’m coming over” or “Park at seven ?” with no real topic. She even went through his notes but there was nothing interesting there, just endless lists. Lists of films to see, places to go, forgotten assignments, groceries to do for their mum, and one list of gift ideas. She hurriedly erased the “shampoo ?” written next to her name.
She hadn’t talked to Harry at all since the end of July. But she wasn’t shocked to see his new look today, because she had been spying. Yes, she can be a little obsessed. And it was just a bike ride and she got caught anyway.
One day, at the end of August, Ron was gone and she decided to follow him. She saw him meet Harry at the park. In shock she had let her bike drop to the ground and had crossed the grass in a mid-run. When Harry had raised his eyes to meet him and her eyes had fallen on his head, not yet healed fully and still covered in a big white bandage hidden under a cap. She had found herself incapable of asking the questions she had prepared.
Ron was out of his mind. He had quickly grabbed her by the arm and hadn’t left her side until they were at home, ignoring all her questions.
“He’s like a brother to me, I’ve known him forever, you can’t hide what’s happening from me!” she screamed at him, when he had turned his back to her to get into his room after the event.
“To you, he may be like a brother. To me, he is one. I’m not telling you shit Ginny.” he had said then, his tone clipped. That’s only then that he had occurred to her to be scared.
“But I’m your sister,” she whined.
“Doesn’t mean you’re my responsibility.”
“So why is he ?” Ginny had asked then, her tone growing frustrated.
He hadn’t answered.
Now they are all back at school. Summer’s over and there’s no more hiding. She will know, however hurtful the truth may be.
That’s why she is here now, looking at her brother and his best friend eating outside on the football field stands, from the school’s second-floor windows.
“Why are we watching them again?” asks Neville in a frightened voice to her right.
“They’re up to something.”
“Maybe they’re only enjoying the weather. It’s very nice out today. I wonder if it’ll rain later,” says Luna to her left.
She has that dreamy quality to her voice Ginny loves, and she isn’t looking down at the two boys but rather up at the azure sky. Ginny briefly looks at her—her dirty blonde curls falling freely down her back, her funny earrings, jellyfish today, and pink glasses that are definitely not prescribed.
She loves her. It makes her chest hurt sometimes, how much she loves her.
“Yeah, maybe. Or maybe they’ve been hiding something from me for the last month, and I don’t like it. Even Hermione’s worried,” she adds to emphasise her point.
“How do you know that?” asks Neville. She looks at them and explains.
“She sent me a text. In the middle of August. Says Ron and Harry aren’t responding to her and she’s scared something has happened to them. Or that they’re pissed at her.”
“They could be. Hermione can be harsh sometimes without meaning it.”
That’s typical Luna. She tells the truth. Always the truth, simple and denuded of all judgement. What she says doesn’t mean she doesn’t like Hermione. Or that she thinks herself better. Just the truth—and Ginny loves the truth.
Did Ginny mention she loves Luna too? Oh, yes, she does, of course.
“I don’t think so. I saw them in class this morning, us being in the same form is just a benediction for my investigation. Ron's still in love with her, he’s looking at her like he’s a kicked puppy.”
“You can be in love with someone and still be angry with them,” says Luna.
“Is this an investigation?” says Neville.
“Well, yes,” she answers to both. They stay like that a little while, their heads resting on their arms crossed against the windowsill of the empty classroom they have claimed.
“What if they don’t want you to know?” whispers Neville again. She feels her determination falter for a second. It’s a question she has already asked herself. What if she digs and finds a bone? Find something she can’t ignore?
But what if her brother and his best friend have gotten themselves into trouble and don’t know how to ask for help now? What if she is the only one who can save them?
“Maybe they don’t know it yet, but they need me to know?” she answers, hearing her own hesitation still lingering in her voice. That doesn’t seem to completely settle her best friend’s worry, but worry is a bit of a piece of Neville either way. They are always worried.
“And how are you going to—lead this investigation anyway?” they ask again. She is getting a bit tired of questions. She had hoped that by telling what is happening to her two best friends (one of them her future wife, hopefully), she would have gained more support.
“I don’t know,” she admits. And she sighs.
“Harry’s in my art class this afternoon. From two to four,” chimes in Luna. And an idea sparks.
“Oh my. That’s a genius idea. You’re a genius, Luna!”
“Thank you, Ginevra.” Ginny frowns but doesn’t correct her. Luna is the only one who can call her by her full name. Not even her mother has that right anymore.
“What are you going to do?” asks Neville, looking at her, their phoenix eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Every good investigator leads interrogations. My two main suspects won’t answer me, so I’ve got to move on to someone else. Their family.” She pauses for a bit of dramatic effect. Neville sighs, and Luna smiles gently at her.
“I’m going to talk to Harry’s parents.”
It all seemed a lot less unnerving when she was talking about it with her friends. Now that she’s in front of Harry’s house, all alone, she feels the doubt creep into her mind.
But it’s only 3 o’clock so there’s a big chance that Harry’s parents aren’t even here. She knows Mr Potter because he was a teacher at their primary school and has seen Mrs Potter at the birthday parties, but she doesn’t really remember when that means she comes home from work.
She looks at the little house in front of her, more a cottage really, surrounded by a wild hedge and ivy creeping on the side of the house. There’s a bell right beside the entrance gate and after a shaky breath for courage, Ginny presses it.
Nothing.
She sighs in relief and starts to turn around when the door suddenly creaks open.
A man steps out, and it’s impossible to not recognise him as Harry’s father. They’re so alike it’s sometimes unnerving but it’s not the first time she’s encountered James Potter and the resemblance fails to surprise her this time. It’s something else, something she can’t manage to pinpoint on the spot.
“Hello. Oh, you’re Ginny right ? Ron’s sisters ?” Asks the man and as he steps out of the house she can see what was bugging her. He seems tired. Very tired.
His messy black curls are falling askew around his face and his eyes are circled. He’s wearing an old brown jumper and sweatpants, like he’s just gotten out of bed. Or readying himself to go to it. Even his smile, so bright and shining like Harry's, falls a bit short today.
“Yes. That’s me.” she nods, pressing her hands together nervously.
“Mmh.” They look at each other, both a little surprised by the short turn of the conversation. “Harry isn’t here.” James says finally.
She hesitates here. At first she had wanted to ask him about his son but she realises that asking him so abruptly might be a bad idea. What if he tells Harry that she asked about him ? Finally she settles in for a little lie.
“Oh, I didn’t know. I wanted to come by to see if he was okay.” Vague enough. Still alluring enough that she might get some info. Good job Ginny.
“Oh. That’s very nice of you. I can’t really answer for him though, you’ll have to ask him next time. It’s a bit of a day by day thing. Ron helps a lot though.” and his voice catches there for a moment.
Ginny is good at reading people. She has six older brothers, all different from one another. Bill is all about keeping it cool and casual and never tells when something bothers him. Charlie talks in more clipped sentences, retreating into his room. Percy will get this little pinch of the mouse and frowned nose and start using complicated words. Fred and George will just murmur to each other until their annoyance transforms into laughter. Ron—well Ron hides it the best. And when Ginny’s annoyed she just punches stuff. Or tell it to the person’s face.
So Ginny’s grown quite good at reading people, it’s quite a necessary skill when you share such a small house with such a great number of people.
That’s why she’s surprised to see jealousy in James Potter’s eyes. Surprised but not doubting herself.
But why would James Potter be jealous of Ron ?
“I will. Sorry for the bother sir.” she answers, already cradling this new piece of information in her mind. James waves her goodbye and goes back into the house. That’s when she notices most of the shutters are close. Maybe he really was sleeping then. Doesn’t primary school end at three pm ? It's only the beginning of the afternoon.
She turns around and walks down the little street. This investigation had proven herself to be of the most difficult matter. But Ginny likes difficult things. She likes hard. She likes challenges. And she won’t stop until she knows.
Ron waits outside of Harry’s class. He finished two hours ago already but had convinced his friend to let him wait for him. He didn’t want to leave Harry alone on his first day back to school. Art class is one of the only classes they don’t share and Harry had been fussy about it.
In other words, he didn’t want to go.
So Ron waits, absently munching on an old apple he had grabbed on the Potter’s fruit bowl this morning. She tastes sour in his mouth but he eats it anyway. She would’ve rot away at this house, where no one speaks, eats or lives anymore, just four walls and four ghosts. And Ron.
Sometimes he catches forgotten snacks in the Potters cupboards and puts them in his bag to eat later. Sometimes he stops at the shop to refill their cupboard but always ends up with his pockets filled with sweets and chocolate.
And sometimes, when he’s sick with worry, when he can’t stop seeing Harry’s pale face, the tube in his throat, the bandage on his shaved head leaking blood, when he feels the sums of it closing up his throat, he gets up in the middle of the night and he bakes. He bakes muffins, and cakes, and decorates them, putting up sugar coating, flowers, ribbons of frosting. And then he eats them too.
One time Percy had walked on him like that at four in the morning, cake slices scattered around the table, all in their small plates, fork ready at their side. A whole wedding taste test scene. His brother had just shrugged and gone back to sleep.
Sometimes he keeps what he bakes. He brings it to the Potter’s and puts them on display on the kitchen table. And after three days, when the frosting loses its colour and the cakes start to harden like bricks he eats them too.
A corner of his mind is aware of it. It isn’t normal. Isn’t healthy. He sees how his body changes, feels how he always has a vague nausea lasting all day. But maybe it’s just the stress. And maybe it’s really not that important compared to all the rest. So he pushes the issues back to the farthest corner of his mind.
And he focuses on Harry. All that matters right now is Harry.
So he waits for him and when he gets out of the art classes early, eyes wild, paints scattered on his hands and up his wrists, his leather jacket gripped tightly against him, Ron doesn’t ask any questions.
He enters the classroom, ignores the teachers calls and picks up Harry’s bag and then he goes to the bathroom.
Harry is carefully washing a fresh paint stain on the brown leather with a wet tissue. Ron stays here, in silence, next to him and waits for him to be finished. When Harry’s satisfied he puts it on again. It’s too hot for leather. Sweat pearls on his forehead, albeit empty of any of those usual dark curls to cling to, like in football practice. Ron takes another wet tissue and he presses it to Harry’s forehead, against his scar. He knows the cold helps. Harry just closes his eyes, letting himself fall into Ron’s touch.
He doesn’t thank him, he never does. Ron doesn’t mind, he knows why; It’s because Harry never asked him to do all of this, Ron just does it. It’s not a payback, not a debt for later. It’s love. You don’t need to thank someone for loving you, it’s not like they have a choice at it anyway.
It’s not the same love he feels for Hermione, the one that sometimes threads itself with lust, jealousy or envy. It’s a different kind, more calm, more quiet but still there, beating in synchronisation with his heart since his childhood.
“I want to go home.” Harry whispers in the empty bathroom. And Ron doesn’t offer to go. He knows this isn’t what Harry means by now. He had an entire month to learn.
“I know,” he says simply. And he grabs his friend, bringing him closer. Harry lets his head fall into Ron's broad shoulders. He’s a good hugger. He always has been and he’s quite proud of it. He’s soft but tall and strong. One time, Hermione had told him that hugging him was the closest she’d ever been to hugging a living bear, minus the fur. So he does what he does best and he hugs Harry, cradling him gently to his chest.
“Let’s go and blow off a little steam. What do you think of that Haz ?” he asks, running a rugged hand down the short strands of hair, hardly two centimetres long now.
“Can’t. My dad’s home, he’ll be waiting for me.” Groans Harry against him.
“He’ll be sleeping. And it’s still early” offers Ron nonetheless
“Okay.” Harry accepts and he sighs before reluctantly taking a step back. Ron can see his hands flexing by his sides.
After a quick stop by Ron’s locker to get their board back, they walk out of the school, the corridors empty with everyone still in class. The bell rings just as they pass the doors on their way out.
It’s not a long walk to the skate park but by the time they arrive they’re sweating heavily and Harry even looks a bit feverish. That damn jacket’s fault. The sun is high on their back and Ron’s arms aches from carrying both of their bags.
They stay here for a few hours. They smoke. They don’t laugh but they come close to it. They fall to the ground, scrap their hands, their knees, get bruises and it feels good. The sun is scorching and Ron knows it’s too late in the summer to burn. He'll just tan a little more but he still feels his head becoming light. He forces Harry to put on a cap to protect the angry scar.
On the way back, Harry lifts his head towards the sun, and a small smile appears on his face. It reminds Ron of the beginning of the summer. Simpler times.
Later when they arrive at the Potters cottage they go straight to the little path that leads to the back garden. The grass is a little wild here, an abandoned football cage in a corner and the unused outdoors table and chairs pushed against a wall. The hedges have grown high and they can see Harry’s parents bedroom window closed shutters. James must still be sleeping then.
Harry carefully removes his jacket as Ron lets go of the bag on the ground.
In the shadow of the hedges, the sun already feels a little bit more bearable. Ron stretches a little.
“Come on, roll me another one.” suddenly ask Harry. Ron lifts his head toward him in surprise. He knows the weed helps but they’ve never smoked outside of the skate park.
“We already had two. Won’t your parents notice something ?”
“Just do it.” Harry bites.
Ron winces as he sits on the little step between the lawn and the terrace. He thinks he may have hurt his knees by falling on it earlier. It should get better in a few days. He frowns at Harry but doesn’t contradict him and starts to search his bag for rolling paper.
“Sorry.” says Harry while sitting next to him. He never thanks him, but he apologises a lot.
“What for, mate ? It’s alright.” assures Ron. And he doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Doesn’t know if he’s helping or not. So he just shrugs and rolls quietly, wishing he had something to eat in his bag too.
They stay here for a long time. Not really talking about anything. At one point Harry asks him to put on some music so they listen to Bowie. Ron kinda hates Bowie now. He didn’t even know the guy a month back. And now he hates him a little more with every passing day.
When Lily comes home he kisses her goodbye on the cheek, tells her he’s put some treacle tart for dessert on the kitchen tables and leaves before she can notice his red eyes. The dusk is only just falling on the city and James still hasn’t woken up, or maybe he did but chose to stay in bed for a little while, let himself pretend his dreams can carry on and blend into the reality.
He arrives home late, he’s missed dinner. It’s okay, he still got potato gravy stocked in his bedroom. For good measures he calls Harry. Just to let him know he’s okay. Harry answers quickly, as usual and Ron’s heartbeat a little more steadily then.
As long as Harry answers Ron can believe he’s fine. It’s when he doesn’t that his breath escapes all reigns and his heart hurts like it's stuck in a wolf trap. It’s when he doesn’t that Ron can only hear James voices whispering on the other line, repeating again and again :
“Harry can’t answer right now, we’re at the hospital. There was an accident. He hadn’t been wearing his helmet. I always tell him to put on his helmet. They told us—He’s dead. Dead.”
Then came a wail, a sob so difformed that Ron had shaken from it, his very soul being ripped apart.
Harry wasn’t dead.
But Ron hadn’t understood it until he had run to the hospital to find him lying there in a white bed, surrounded by beeping sounds and too bright lights, a ugly tube secured to his mouth breathing for him. Hadn’t believed it until a kind nurse showed him where to see his friend's pulse on the screen, told him that the operation had gone well and that they were hoping to wake him up once he’d be more stable.
Hadn’t understood it until he had stepped back into the corridor to see James crying in his wife’s arm, his whole body shaking in horror, his eyes two black holes pouring tears in between sobs. And Ron felt like he was looking in a mirror showing him another version of this story.
Because his best friend was alive, but James’ wasn't.
Harry Potter was alive.
Sirius Black was dead.