Why was her stomach feeling that way?

Ginny Weasley had learned that the best way to know her own feelings was not to follow her heart, as her mother had told her when she was little; it was not to write in a journal, as she had come to believe when she was eleven; and it was most certainly not to follow her head, as Hermione had assured her in second year. No, the best way to know what she was feeling was simply by paying careful attention to her stomach, or as some might call it, her gut. It wasn’t intuition, no, calling it her gut feeling would be off the mark. It was something different.

Maybe everybody had it. Maybe it was just her. Either way, Ginny knew that when it came to life’s greatest challenges, she ought to follow not her head or her heart, but quite plainly, her stomach. How had she come to this great realization? It had been slow, that was for sure, and it had all begun when Michael Corner had kissed her.

They’d spent a lot of time together since meeting at the Yule Ball, her and Michael, talking in corridors, studying together, even dipping their feet into the lake on an occasion or two. She had begun to think he liked her, and she liked him. After all, he made her nervous, and he made her blush, and both her head and heart were sure she was falling for him.

Then finally, on a breezy day in March, Michael had placed a kiss right on her lips. Was it romantic like in the stories she read so often that she knew them by heart? Was it breath-taking, life-changing, you-complete-me, I-melt-into-you? No. But who didn’t see that coming? It was awkward; his lips just touching hers . . . and then . . . stuck to her lips. What was she even supposed to do? And was it absurd of her to wonder what would happen if their noses collided?

And then, as he pulled an inch away and his face was right there, a little line of perspiration just above his lip, the fringe of his hair darker with sweat, with nerves, and his eyes glassy, looking at her hopefully, she’d felt it. A twinge. Around her navel. A twinge around her navel, telling her she’d rather be running naked across the roof of Hogwarts screaming the Hogwarts song with her mother watching — than kiss him again. It was a rather overwhelming feeling, to be honest.

She had then stumbled over how she wasn’t ready to date, and promptly fled, before relaying it all to Hermione. She could still remember Hermione’s words in reply. “Ginny, do you dislike him because you dislike him, or do you dislike him because he’s not Harry?� Ginny had blushed brilliantly, and Hermione had clucked her tongue at her.

For a few weeks she had foolishly continued to listen to her heart and head, and it had led her down the path of spending more and more time with Michael, who, she was sure, was getting the altogether wrong impression. And then everything with the Triwizard third task happened, with Cedric Diggory’s death and every horrible thing that surrounded it. Her stomach had been twinging terribly when Harry returned from the maze clutching Cedric’s dead body and the Triwizard cup.

But still, even with this further proof of the knowledge her twinging stomach possessed, Ginny ignored how it could show her the light. The third task ended, Harry was alright, and Ginny did what was the most obvious thing to do: she decided to date the boy who made her laugh, who made her blush, who made her feel beautiful. Even if when she daringly kissed him, her stomach might as well have clucked its tongue at her as disapprovingly as Hermione.

And she continued to date him. She ignored her stomach altogether, and she enjoyed the confidence dating Michael gave her. She gained respect from her friends, she learned daily from Michael that she was someone worth being around, someone worth being liked, and naturally, she got better at the kissing thing over time. She learned how to express herself, how to be herself. She learned that Michael laughed when she told a joke — why shouldn’t she tell more people jokes? And why couldn’t she try out for Quidditch? Why should she hide her talent?

Then she had talked with Harry in the library, ate a chocolate egg with him, and was shooed from the library with him. And when the library doors closed behind them, Harry looked over at her, laughing softly at what had happened, and down came the twinge. If it could sing, or play piano, the words and notes of “Hallelujah� would have been ringing out. How cheesy is that?

After that, the stomach twinge came again and again. It came as she helped Harry get into Umbridge’s office, as she watched helplessly while the old toad threatened an Unforgivable, as she flew on the back of a creature she couldn’t even see, as she saved the day with Harry, as she watched Sirius Black die. The twinge in her stomach could no longer be denied, not as it had kept her alive and feeling throughout the whole hectic night.

She broke up with Michael Corner.

And she decided to date Dean Thomas. No, the twinge wasn’t telling her it was the way to go. But it wasn’t telling her it wasn’t the way to go and so little in tune with her stomach at that point, she didn’t know any better. Dean was good to her; he looked on her as smart, talented, and beautiful, and it didn’t hurt that he himself was smart, talented, and gorgeous. He had a wicked sense of humor, Dean, and that might have been what Ginny loved about him most: he could always make her laugh.

But the twinges were constant and undeniable now, and from the moment she saw the look on Harry’s face after he and Ron caught her snogging Dean and her stomach twinged in agony, Ginny knew what was what. She began to pay more attention to the twinges, even as she went on dating Dean.

She recognized the agony of the twinge when Harry was knocked off his broom by that absolute moron Cormic, and she recognized the fierce anger of the twinge when Dean turned his humour on Harry, somehow thinking Harry’s fall had been funny. Ginny was disgusted, twinge and all.

Slowly, with the twinge nudging her along, Ginny began to find faults in Dean. For every fault she found she would pull up an admirable trait, but before long, it was as if she was struggling to find admirable traits that compared. He was a little arrogant, but he was still sweet to her. He had laughed at Harry falling, but he was really funny . . . most of the time. He didn’t seem to think she could handle the simplest of tasks . . . he was well mannered.

Why couldn’t he be more modest, though? He really was arrogant, in a more passive aggressive way. Was that good? Sometimes, she supposed. But other times she wanted him to get angrier, to yell and to shout.

It was as if she were too delicate for him to yell at her. What was the admirable trait to go along with that? Maybe another girl could find one, but not Ginny. Over time, it was as if an internal battle slowly began to grow inside her, fighting to decide what she really wanted.

And the guiding light in the battle was, naturally, her twinge. She knew that the twinge in her stomach was the key to knowing her own feelings. She was hesitant to follow its instructions, however, and it took her a while to admit as much as she may care for Dean, he frustrated her to no end, and they would never really work. She broke up with him. And then she and the twinge went after Harry.

And they got him.

What had her stomach told her when she kissed Harry? It had told her that she was in love with him. But she already knew that! After that, she and Harry were a couple, and their kisses were never awkward but rather were the fairy tale kisses for which she had been waiting. Harry was as unassuming and easy going as Dean was arrogant and high strung; he treated Ginny not as a delicate girl to be cared for, but as if she were suddenly his best friend, as if she were wonderful in every way, and he couldn’t get enough of her. Put simply, he seemed to adore her and Ginny couldn’t help but bask in it all, naturally adoring him right back.

Unsurprisingly, she finally held her stomach in high esteem. It knew wrong from right, at least when it came to her.

It was her compass when Harry broke up with her, when he returned to the Burrow with Ron and Hermione, when she kissed him, and when he left. She knew she loved him, and she knew he loved her, even if he was afraid to admit it. And she knew they would be together when this was all over.

For a while the twinge was absent as she was battling at Hogwarts day in and day out or, more accurately, was simply a constant pang of worry, so constant it become standard. Then she saw Harry again, and the way he looked at her — the twinge did a happy-dance. Then she took care of a crying, fearful girl. And the twinge cried out. Ginny turned from the girl, but no one was there. Nothing was wrong.

Why was her stomach feeling that way?

Neville came along and helped Ginny get the girl to safety. “Neville,� asked Ginny hesitantly, following the twinge’s instructions. “Have you seen Harry lately?�

“Just saw him a few minutes ago,� answered Neville. “He was acting a little off, but he told me he wasn’t going to turn himself in. I asked him, and he told me of course he wasn’t, but he had something to do. He went that way,� he said, nodding his head. If the twinge had a head, it was shaking it sadly.

“If he went that way he would have passed me,� Ginny said, almost accusingly. Neville shrugged helplessly. Ginny thought about her earlier feeling of alarm. Did Harry . . . ? There was that cloak of his. . . . “What about Ron and Hermione, Neville, have you seen them?�

“That way,� Neville answered as he nodded in the opposite direction. Not saying another word to him in her worry, Ginny hurried off in search of Ron and Hermione. She found them and she found them alone. No Harry in sight. They were worried too.

“Did he turn himself in?� asked Ron apprehensively. Hermione and Ginny both glared at him. “What?!� he exclaimed. “We’re all thinking it; I’m just saying it out loud, is all.� Ginny turned away from him, rubbing her temples. He wouldn’t do it. He was noble, yes, but he couldn’t do it, because they were supposed to be together at the end! Ginny and Harry, Harry and Ginny, together forever. Colour her crazy, but it was how it was supposed to happen! Ginny knew it, and so did her stomach.

Harry was a noble git, and Ginny loved him for that despite herself, but, honestly, he wouldn't really --

“Let’s just find him, and not let him out of our sight,� declared Hermione. Ginny nodded her head in agreement. The three set out looking for him, but no one had seen him in five, and then ten, and then twenty minutes. The few who mentioned seeing him a little while ago all talked of him heading rather solemnly in the direction Neville had said. It did not bode well.

Ginny wished her stomach had the power to tell her what she needed to know, not just what she felt. Where are you, Harry? she thought sadly to herself. The thought was accompanied with a twinging pang of worry from her stomach. The three continued searching, growing more frantic, until all their fears were confirmed with the echoing, wretched voice, cold and clear to them all.

“Harry Potter is dead.�

Her mind stopped thinking, her body stopped moving, perhaps she even stopped breathing and her heart stopped beating. All that was there was the twinge in her stomach, screaming No! This wasn’t happening, Voldemort was lying! Harry was not dead!

“He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.�

“I don’t believe it!� shouted Hermione fiercely. Suddenly Ginny became aware she was running toward the entrance with Ron and Hermione on either side of her, that she was still alive, and that there was no proof Harry was dead. Her mind was working again; her body functioning once more. And for the first time in months, she ignored the dead weight of the twinge in her stomach. Better to listen to her head and heart, both still clinging to hope.

“The battle is won. You have lost half your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished.�

Hermione tripped. Ginny hardly noticed as Ron helped her to her feet. She paused slightly to wait for them, Voldemort still speaking, her stomach still twisting into knots, her head still arguing that there was no way Harry could be dead — no way, no way, no way. . . .

“There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.�

“No,� Hermione whispered, even as they pushed through the doors, even as a piercing scream came from McGonagall, a sound Ginny would never have placed to her. Ginny was briefly aware that the three were surrounded by a large surge of people who had all done as they had done, rushed from the castle, and that a wall of Death Eaters stood before them.

Then the twinge exploded. White hot pain shot through her, and she heard Ron and Hermione shouting, but it didn’t matter. She could see him limp in Hagrid’s arm, his eyes closed beneath his spectacles. She screamed his name once, twice, desperately. He did not move; he did not open his eyes. He did nothing.

She went on screaming his name among a roar of people. She didn’t need her stomach to tell her what she was feeling. The world was dark. Cold had washed down over her, was swimming through her blood and frosting her bones. All good and wonderful things were gone. It was worse than all other evils in the world, it was worse than all other loses; it was unimaginable, unadulterated anguish. The sun would not rise again; the very idea was a mockery — the sun couldn’t shine any longer, the earth would no longer turn.

Slowly Ginny became numb and swayed on her feet. Voldemort silenced them, and he had Harry, motionless, lifeless Harry, placed at his feet. All Ginny was aware of was the twinge in her stomach, and the terrible, terrible pain it was in. But was she even aware of that? All she could see was Harry. Motionless. Motionless Harry. Motionless. Harry. Not moving. Motionless. Harry.

“He beat you!� Ron shouted. It awoke something in Ginny; she could feel something prick in her eyes, but they remained dry. Harry hated it when girls were weepy. She would not cry. Her heart was thudding almost painfully in her chest, as if stabbing her icy insides with each silly beat. But it passed. The pain disappeared, leaving her a cold, hollow shell. She couldn’t even feel the twinge. She was numb, almost blissfully numb. Why could she so suddenly, so vividly, remember the feel of Harry’s lips on hers? She should be watching Neville, running toward Voldemort with unadulterated fury — what was he doing? “Harry!� she squealed. “Are you attracted to me or to my hair?� she teased.

She should be concerned that Neville had been stopped, that he was in danger — and was that the Sorting Hat? “So I like your hair. What’s wrong with that? It’s nice. Smells nice, too. And it’s soft. In fact, I love your hair!� and he buried his face in her hair, and she could feel him smile into her neck as she laughed at him.

“Dumbledore’s Army!� shouted Neville. What was it about those two words that snapped Ginny’s eyes from Harry’s limp body? She didn’t know. But suddenly the twinge in her stomach was speaking to her in that way it had. And Ginny knew quite positively that she was furious.

He would not kill Neville. He would not take another life the way he had taken Harry’s life. The way he had, for what really mattered, taken Ginny’s. Ginny charged, and she wasn’t surprised to find the crowd around her roaring their outrage and charging with her. The fighting broke out again, Neville was swishing a sword through the air, giants were fighting, — and when did the centaurs arrive at the scene? Voldemort’s snake was suddenly headless, and Hagrid was hollering for Harry.

That got her attention. Where was his body? Her stomach twinged in alarm, alerting her to Hagrid’s frantic shouts. She would not let his body be trampled. She began to search for him herself, her eyes scanning for the motionless body. And then the twinge gave a little wiggle, and it took her a moment to realize it was hope.

It was, after all, Harry. What if he . . . ? Bodies don’t just disappear. But people do. People who are alive do. Her head shouted not to be a fool, to find his body and save what little of him was left to save. Her head conjured image after image of his motionless body. Her heart was thudding wildly, and she could not understand what it was telling her. But it didn’t matter. This time it was her stomach that did what her heart and head were having trouble doing: it clung to hope. It wasn’t rational, it wasn’t right; it would only hurt her more when she did find his body — but since when did the twinge in her stomach care about that?

There was no more time to dwell on it, however. Spells were passing her left and right and she was about to be trampled. Gripping her wind tightly, her eyes so dry they itched, her head suddenly pounding and her stomach twinging this way and that, Ginny joined the battle. She shot spell after spell as she was swept back into the school. Before long she was beside Luna and Hermione, both of whom were crying as Ginny could not, as they battled the craziest of all Death Eaters, the worst of all Death Eaters.

It took all her of concentration to fight Lestrange, and when the crazy woman met eyes with Ginny, and her eyes laughed at Ginny, laughed at Harry’s death and the hollow look it must have left carved in Ginny’s face — Ginny lost her balance. Harry. Green whizzed by her. Harry had green eyes. She was going crazy.

“NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!�

Ginny’s mother pushed her aside, and even as Ginny blinked in surprise at her mother’s sudden fury, her mum began to fight with Lestrange. Their fighting was fierce, and Ginny watched on with wide eyes, sudden fear gripping her that she would lose her mother as she had lost her Harry — Harry! Green-eyed, bashful Harry, the boy who was adorably nervous around her at first, the boy who loved to play with her hair, the boy who hated when girls cried, the boy who had told her all about his childhood, things he admitted he had never told anyone before. Her Harry.

“— when Mummy’s gone the same way as Freddie?� Ginny felt the words like a punch to the gut, her stomach twinged in both terrible anguish and in guilt. How had she forgotten that? Fred — killed. It was impossible to imagine. It was unreal. Fred gone, and Harry gone, and Ginny crumbling on the inside, her stomach shrieking and sobbing, even as her eyes remained scathingly dry, her cheeks pale, and her lips chapped.

What happened next came in a rush, came one after another so quickly Ginny didn’t have time to feel more than a sharp pang from her stomach at each event. “You — will — never — touch — our — children — again!� her mother shouted. Then her mother killed Bellatrix Lestrange. Then Voldemort looked at her mother and a motionless Lestrange in horror. Then came a shout, “Protego!� and a shield sprang out to protect her mother from Voldemort.

Then he was back. It was his voice she had heard, and it was his familiar frame, messy black hair, and ever-endearing spectacles that faced Voldemort. “HARRY!� she yelled. He was moving, he was alive, he was here, he was alive, he was walking, talking, breathing, living — he was alive!

Ginny could not describe the feeling in her stomach. There was no need. It was happiness, blinding, surging, and unimaginable happiness. It did not matter what happened next. Harry was alive.

Silence had fallen; Harry and Voldemort circled one another, the climax of the moment rather awing. And Harry was alive. Harry Potter was alive. He was the way living people were. She could kiss him again, flirt with him again, marry him, have his children, live in his house, and grow old with him. That’s what you do with people who are alive. Harry was alive.

How could Ginny even describe that?

Harry and Voldemort were speaking now, Harry surprisingly — and yet unsurprisingly — calm, Voldemort growing angry and crazed. Scattered phrases managed to wiggle their way into Ginny’s muddled, over-joyous mind, puncturing the mantra of Harry-is-alive that still danced through her head. Voldemort calling Harry’s mother a cockroach, and shrieking about love, Harry telling Voldemort he knew things Voldemort did not, and speaking about Snape.

She didn’t really register the last thing Harry said. It was about the Elder Wand. But it didn’t matter. Their wands were raised, and their mouths were open. And it was what happened next that mattered. Her stomach twinged sharply in anticipation:

“Avada Kedavra!� screamed one.

“Expelliarmus!� screamed the other.

There were two streams of colour, a flying wand, and the Dark Lord Voldemort fell to the ground dead.

Roars of victory rang out, and Ginny surged forward with everyone else, with Ron and Hermione, to give Harry a hug of victory. He had won. He was alive, he had won, and it was all over.

Ginny lost track of Harry in all the exclamations of victory, all the hugging and laughing around her. She found her mother, and her stomach was overflowing with a sense of utter relief as she fell into her mother’s arms, and inhaled her mother’s heavenly scent. Her mind was still reeling; her head still pounded lightly. Her heart still thudded rather erratically. She didn’t know what to think or feel.

They had been victorious, they had won the battle, and everything was finally over. But Fred was dead. Her brother, her always cheerful, laughing brother, would never laugh again. Remus and Tonks were dead. Parents of a newborn baby, ripped forever from innocent, little Teddy’s life. It was surreal to think they were all really gone. She didn’t know what to think or feel. She couldn’t understand her head or her heart.

So she listened to the twinge in her stomach contentedly. It told her that it would be okay. That she should simply lean into her mother’s shoulder and rest, relax, recharge. Slowly, her head stopped throbbing, her heart beat quietly and calmly in her chest as it should, and Ginny wanted nothing more in the world than to go to the loo. She kissed her mother’s cheek and silently made her way out of the Great Hall, giving a nod to the six or seven people who shouted out her name gleefully.

The corridors were surprisingly empty. Ginny was glad. She would want to talk to her friends, her professors, and her brothers eventually, but right now, the alone time was rather nice. After leaving the loo, where she had spent an extra few minutes redoing her hair and washing her face, Ginny continued down the empty corridors.

Her mind was whirling in all directions, a thousand thoughts and feelings bombarding her, and it was almost too much. She just wandered aimlessly and unaware, memories of running barefoot around the Burrow, innocent and happy, memories of Fred beside her, of Fred laughing, and smiling, and teasing all playing on a reel in her mind. Suddenly, out of the blue, her stomach gave an odd twisting twinge.

Why was her stomach feeling that way?

This time, however, when Ginny whirled around, it was not to the sight of nothing. Harry stood there, looking sheepish; his hands were stuffed in his pockets as he rocked on his heels and looked at her nervously. For a moment she just looked back at him. His clothing was somewhat muddy, his hair was mussed up worse than ever, and he had a few scratches on his arms and even one on his cheek.

He looked like heaven.

Where had Ron and Hermione gone? Was Harry going to say something? Should she say something? Were they going to get back together easily? Was he going to crawl away in a shell of guilt over Remus, Tonks, and Fred’s deaths? What should she do? What did he expect her to do? Her head was working as fast as Harry’s firebolt. Her heart was doing that awfully nasty habit it had of thumping like a wild race horse.

She ignored them both. Her stomach twinged. And she walked straight toward Harry, her face blazing, and threw her arms around his neck. He planted a kiss right on her lips, his arms wrapping around her and lifting her completely up off the ground, holding her tightly to him. His mouth was wonderful on hers, the sensations of being so close to him, smelling him, feeling him, kissing him — they sent tidal waves of emotion, of love, over her.

The twinge in her stomach was dancing the conga.

Fin



A/N: So I'm sitting on the couch in my living room, drinking grape juice and being bored. And naturally, in my boredom, I decide to read a few choice passages from Deathly Hallows. What better way to pass the time, right? I start reading the scene from the final battle, and I get to thinking, what were the other characters thinking when Harry played dead? And by other characters, I mean Ginny. I promptly rush to my computer and sit at it for two hours with Deathly Hallows propped open in my lap, writing this. Hope you enjoyed!

Please review? :)