Chapter 3: Routine
Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep
SLAM!
“Now you decide to work properly,” Harry protested groggily after silencing his roguish alarm clock. As much as he wished he could get mad at the offending piece of machinery, Harry had to admit that he was a little grateful for the reprieve from his ever present nightmares. Besides, he thought as he drug himself out of bed, It is the weekend.
Routines are a curious thing. They make us feel safe when we are in danger, and comfortable when we shouldn’t be. A well placed routine is what allows some of us to continue on with our existence when there seem to be too many reasons stacked up not to. For Harry, the work week provided him with plenty of routine. Get up, get a shower, get dressed, get a bite to eat, get to work, get through the workday, get home, get a meager supper, get an hour or so of television, and get to bed. Get up again, rinse, and repeat.
What had bothered Harry was the weekend. There was no work on the weekend, and the broadcasting stations, as if mocking the entire concept of routine, frequently shifted their programming, often times replacing a crime drama with a football game, or the news with the some old movie that no one wants to see anyway. That was why Harry developed his weekend routine, or at least that was why Harry had told himself he developed it.
This, of course, was a complete lie. The concept of a lie is pretty simple. It’s about protecting something. You could be protecting yourself, or someone else, or even an idea. When you tell your girlfriend that she looks rather smashing in the potato sack looking dress she bought earlier that afternoon, that’s a lie that you tell her to protect her feelings from getting hurt. When Harry told himself why he did what he did every weekend, it was to protect nobody but himself.
Why he needed protecting he wasn’t exactly sure, but he at least knew he needed it enough to construct the lie.
**
His hair still dripping from the shower, Harry opened the closet to survey the one thing he allowed himself to splurge on since striking out on his own. Lifting the sleek black suit from its revered place in the closet, he laid it out on the bed, and removed the towel from his waist.
It wasn’t a particularly fancy suit. Simple jacket, simple slacks, simple white shirt, and a very simple black tie. Still, it was the only thing he owned in this new life of his that was not second-hand, and he had even forked over the extra coin to have it tailored properly.
Slipping the black jacket from the hanger, he carefully undid the buttons of the shirt and pulled it on, numbly acknowledging the starched fabric as it slipped over his muscled torso. Next came the slacks, and he took particular care on how he tucked his shirt in, spending several minutes in front of the mirror to make sure that it didn’t bunch up or blouse at the bottom. After this came the tie. He had to have the shopkeeper show him how to tie it, and after several failed attempts on his part, Harry was given a little card with a diagram. While he finally did figure out how to tie the tie on his own, he still pulled the card out every time, if only for routine's sake.
Finally, he slipped on the jacket. He remembered the tailor explaining to him which buttons to button, and which to leave alone, and with an almost holy reverence, fastened the jacket buttons, taking particular care to make sure the bottom one was left undone. It is a good fit, he thought to himself just as he had done each Saturday for the past three weekends.
Satisfied that this was the best he was likely to make himself look, Harry sighed and slid his feet into a matching pair of shoes, and grabbed the little satchel that lay on the closet floor.
The satchel itself was of great importance to Harry’s routine, and in and of itself, warranted its own little mini-routine. He took it to the kitchen, made two sandwiches that he placed first in little plastic bags, then into a little side pocket, and then he padded back towards his bedroom. Harry would then sit on his austere bed, and place the satchel on his knees. Inside it were items Harry only ever allowed himself to use during his weekend routine, and before opening it, he would just sit there and reflect upon the contents. The moment of reflection over, he loosened the string that held the tote closed and removed, in order, his old wand, then the airy invisibility cloak that once belonged to his father, and finally, despite the impossibility of something so large fitting into a bag so small, a broomstick.
These items he placed on his bed carefully and took a few moments more to look at them sadly. In a way he felt like he was letting them down, chaining them up somehow, and only letting them fulfill their purpose in the most degrading of ways. They had each done so much for him, and his only way of repayment was to force them into the same sad dance weekend after weekend.
Wearily, he lifted his wand, and tapped at the somewhat battered broomstick with “FIREBOLT” printed in fading letters along the handle, and watched as the letters faded along with the rest of the broomstick so as to match his bed almost perfectly. Unceremoniously, he replaced the now nearly invisible broom into the satchel.
He then cast the same disillusionment charm on himself, shuddering slightly at the sensation of cool liquid trickling down his body. Checking to make sure that the charm had taken, he quickly scanned his feet which now looked like carpet, and his legs which were the same rust color of his bed spread. The charm, he had realized, was not absolutely necessary. Though he had grown quite a bit since he first donned his father's invisibility cloak, it still managed to cover him completely with only the smallest bit of hunching. Still, the charm made him feel safer; an added layer of protection against pesky breezes that might just whisk away invisibility cloaks.
Continuing with the routine, Harry looped the bag over his shoulder before grabbing the silvery cloak and covering himself entirely. He was now a thoroughly invisible man.
He took one final moment to peruse his barren bedroom. Pitiful, he mused to himself at the lack of life within the room. Eager to get on with his routine, he slowly spun around, and by the time his revolution was complete, the room had truly become empty.
**
After the sickening sensation of being gutted and tugged by a hook jabbed through his middle had passed, Harry gingerly opened his eyes. The sight of old oak trees adorned with mournful runners of Spanish moss hanging listlessly over rows and rows of erected stone slabs had greeted him. It was a sad place, and yet, it was one of the few places where Harry could find a measure of comfort, and he found a small smile play across his lips as he navigated deftly between the markers of those passed away.
It hadn't taken him long to find what he was looking for. It never did. Even when he had made this pilgrimage the first time about a year ago he found himself gravitating directly towards the spot he needed with little difficulty. Now, as he stood before the two modest gravestones, he felt as though he had always been able to find them if he had just tried hard enough.
"Hullo Mum... Dad," he said quietly, removing his invisibility cloak and breaking the disillusionment charm. "How're things?" They didn't answer. They never did. It wasn't as if Harry expected them to. Truth be told, he would most likely have been shocked right out of his skin if his deceased parents started chatting with him out of nowhere. All the same, he could never rid himself of the deep sense of regret at their continued silence.
"I, uh, brought you some flowers," he continued weakly, pulling two lilies out from another side pocket of the satchel. Without another word, he removed the wilting lilies he had placed at his parents' graves only last week, replacing them with the two fresh ones he had produced from his sack. Taking the dried lilies between his fingers, he sat down on the lush green grass and rested his back against the side of his father's tombstone.
He sat like that in silence for what seemed an eternity. A dead flower in each hand, he spun the skeletal remains between his thumbs and forefingers as he watched the sunlight dance with the shadows of the oak leaves above him on his mother's gravestone, making it almost sparkle in the comfortable midsummer morning. Harry had read stories of those who had visited the graves of lost loved ones, and had wished for a bird to sing out just then, or a warm breeze to caress his cheek, to feel some sign that they were with him. But, just as in weeks passed, he was disappointed. All he had was cold stone, green loam, moist Earth, and two dead flowers.
The silence was heavy, but not suffocating, and though Harry felt rather comfortable in its grip, the time had come to break it. "I saved someone's life yesterday," he said in an almost ashamed tone. "Ernie, I told you about him. Decent bloke, but daft. He wasn't paying attention, and would have been crushed under a huge box full of parts yesterday if I hadn't gotten to him. I don't think I would have gotten there in time, too, if it weren't for..." he paused for a moment, not even wanting to say the word. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he concluded, "Magic."
"Suppose you're really proud of me now, " he muttered sarcastically. "I try and run away, try and live like a Muggle, and I can't even manage that one properly, can I? And what am I supposed to do? Wish I hadn't used magic? Ernie'd probably be dead now if I hadn't. I don't... I just don't..." he couldn't finish. How could he explain to his parents how he felt about everything when he couldn't even explain it to himself? Even if they were alive, could they really understand how painful all of this was?
Out of nowhere, Harry chuckled slightly. Being dead, his mum and dad may very well understand what he was feeling better than he was. Fat lot of good it did him though, not being able to hear them.
Not wanting to waste his time with his parents on silence, Harry tried another, less painful, subject. "My boss, Mr. Jacobs, invited me over for dinner last night, too. You know, I thought he was going to be a bit hard when I first started working for him, but he's really nice. I like his wife too, she reminds me an awful lot like..." and Harry found himself stopped short by another painful subject. It had seemed like forever since the last time he had visited with the woman who had taken him in as a son. As Mrs. Weasley's plump face flitted across his mind he wondered if she was fretting over him right now, just as he saw her do over all of her children during years previous. Or, he pondered with fright, was she cursing his name instead?
"Well," he renewed. "If everything we talk about today is going to lead us to a sore subject, I may as well..." He sighed. "D-Did you know I had a… girlfriend?" This was a very valid question, he thought. As they were deceased, Harry had no way of knowing whether they knew everything about Harry's life, or nothing.
"I did, you know. Actually, I had two if you count Cho, but I don't. It's not like I hated her or anything, but we only had the one kiss, and it was pretty strange. Then we only went out on one date, and that turned out dreadful. I mean, she was nice, really, but she wasn't..." Before Harry could continue, he had to swallow down a very large lump that had somehow formed in his throat. Just thinking about her had caused him so much pain, but he had to tell his parents about her. He had to let them know. She was too important to him for them not to know about her. "She wasn't Ginny," he finally finished.
"I really wished you could have met her," he continued, feeling the all too familiar sting behind his eyes that arose any time he thought about her. "I think you would have really liked her. I might have mentioned her before, she is Ron's younger sister, you know. But..." Harry stopped, trying to figure out exactly where to begin. A thought crossed his mind, and the thought turned into a chuckle, which miraculously turned into a full laugh.
"It's a bit funny, really," he finally said. "The way things started out. I mean, she had this huge crush on me, and I didn't know what to do. Honestly, what are you supposed to do when you're twelve and your best mate's little sister has a crush on you? But it was bad. Some of it was kind of nice, like when she stood up for me against Malfoy in the bookshop, but some of it was just..." his words died in another fit of laughter.
"For Valentine's Day, she had sent me this singing telegram. Only, it was delivered by this really hefty dwarf dressed up as a cupid, and right there in front of the whole school this thing tackles me and starts singing this song that Ginny wrote for me. Oh, it was dreadful, and I don't think I've been more embarrassed in my entire life. I still remember it, too, every last word." With a huge smile on his face, Harry gruffed up his voice to sound as much like the cupid/dwarf from his second year, and began to sing:
His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.
When he had finished, the smile on his face had faded away, as though it Disapparated to a face where a smile was more apt to belong. "You know, I'm not really sure why I still remember that stupid song. I guess I always thought it was because it was so embarrassing, but maybe... I don't know, maybe a part of me knew even then." Harry's shoulders hunched, and he pulled his knees up to his chest before continuing.
"Well, then something funny happened. She got over her crush. She stopped swooning over me, and, thankfully, sending me valentines, and somewhere along the way, she became one of the most popular girls in school. Not hard to see why, really. She's pretty, oh dad, if you could see her. She's got hair kind of like yours, mum, and, well, these eyes. And she's funny, I mean, she'll take the mickey out of you without losing a beat. And the things she could do with a wand..."
"So, anyway, the funny thing that happened is that her crush on me died, but four years later, I had a crush on her. And, turns out, she was braver than I was. She got up the courage to send me that silly valentine. I spent the better part of sixth year worrying about what Ron would do if he found out I fancied his kid sister. But I did it. I finally did it," he said triumphantly. "I kissed her, and right in front of nearly every Gryffindor at Hogwarts too. That was... I think maybe you really might have been proud of me for that."
Harry let himself glow in the memory of his first kiss with Ginny. Feeling a small weight at his chest for the first time in weeks, Harry pulled out a small gold locket from beneath his suit, and opened it, holding it out at arms length as if trying to show both tombstones the tiny moving picture inside. "See," he muttered. "That was the moment," and sure enough, the picture, given to him almost a year ago, had showed Harry and Ginny kissing, a sea of red and gold clad students watching and cheering. After a time, he closed the locket, and let the weight settle once again on his chest.
"I ended it a few weeks later. I didn't want to, but, well, you know why." Harry let his head droop between his arms resting on his knees. "After that, we only had one really good day together, and I haven't really seen her since then."
He felt a tear drop from his face, and felt his fist clench, trying to stuff down the pain. "I miss her," he said, his voice a high-pitched whisper. "God, I miss her," he said again, and after this second declaration, he found he no longer had the will to keep from crying. Tears slipped hot and freely down his cheeks, pooling at his chin before finally diving down to wet the already damp soil. His breaths came in low hisses and his shoulders shuddered, and he cried, fully mourning the hole that seemed stamped straight through his chest. He wanted to feel a kind arm wrap around him, or hear a warm voice hush him. He wanted to be told that everything was okay, but everything wasn't, and there was no one there to tell him neither truth nor lie.
Finally, he lifted his head, and tried in vain to wipe the tears from his cheeks. "I want to go back. I want to so bad, mum. I really do, but I can't. I don't know... And I'm trying, mum, I really am, but it hurts, and I'm scared... Mum..." Again he let himself cry, slowly banging the back of his head against his dad's marker, hating himself for being so pathetic. "I need you two... I don't know where to go anymore."
That was the last he spoke for a long while, unable to manage anything intelligible through the tears. He hadn't cried in front of his parents like this before, and he wasn't sure if it had made him feel better, or worse, but eventually the tears did stop, and he was able to allow himself a slight, wet, snigger.
"Wonder what Sirius must think of me now," he chortled. "Is he doing all right? Not getting into too much trouble? I bet he's getting into loads of trouble," Harry concluded, and smiled at the thought of his godfather roaming free and unfettered. This image brought a new tear to Harry's eye, but this tear was a happy one, and his heart was warmed, if only a little bit, by the idea that at least Sirius was no longer cooped up in a house he hated, kept from taking action when his heart was demanding he do so. "Could you do me a favor, and not tell Sirius I'm such a mess? He worries about me too much sometimes, and I don't think he should."
Harry glanced at his watch, and seeing that it was already afternoon, gave a start. "Oh! I'm gonna be late!" he yelped, jumping to his feet and putting his things and charms in order. Invisible once again he took one last look at his parents' graves and said, "I've got to go, but I'll be back next week, okay?" After a hesitant pause, he added, "I love you." And with a faint pop, Harry was gone.
**
Mrs. Weasley, Harry had learned in his first outing, had taken to serving a very early supper these days. Sure enough, as he approached the tottering Weasley household, his nose was greeted with a wondrous array of aromas that had instantly sent his stomach to growling. He could smell roasted chicken and fresh baked bread, warm butter and peas. To Harry the smell was more than just that of food, but of comfort, and love, and home, and he let the enticing odors guide him gently towards the spot that had quickly become his spot.
Beneath a gangly willow tree, Harry had found a large gnarled knot in the root that had thrust up from the ground as though trying and almost succeeding at escaping its confines of hard-packed clay. It had served as a rather comfortable chair, considering the circumstances, and when Harry sat down, he had a perfect view through the Burrow's large window over looking the Weasley's dining table.
Despite the fact that dinner smelled nearly ready, the only two people seated at the table thus far were Ron and Hermione. As Harry watched the two leaned in close and talking comfortably, he found that this was not at all surprising. On one hand, the Burrow was the embodiment of chaos, and it was a rare moment when everyone was together, seated, and calm even now that most of the Weasley children had moved away. On the other hand, Ron was easily the hungriest person Harry had ever known, and seeing him eagerly awaiting his next meal was the most natural thing in the world. Hermione's presence had come as a bit of a shock to Harry during his first visit, but it didn't take him long to understand that the two seemed almost incapable to be outside the other's presence, and Harry couldn't help feeling a little touched by this.
How he wished he could hear what they were talking about. I should be in on that conversation, he thought sadly watching them carry on, their hands clasped tenderly beneath the table. It wasn't until their words had been halted by a kiss that Harry changed his mind, looking away as he thought, maybe not.
Hoping he had given them enough privacy, Harry looked once again only to find that they were still kissing. The image of his two best friends sharing this moment had stirred something deep within Harry, something at once hopeful and light, and yet painful and wanting. He couldn't express how happy he had felt for them, but at the same time he was filled with such a sense of longing, this burning desire to feel someone else's small, soft hand in his, to share the same close air, to let his nostrils fill with a familiar, intoxicating, flowery scent, and to let himself be lost in something other than pity and despair for once. Feeling slightly ashamed about intruding upon what was obviously a private and intimate moment, Harry was about to again avert his eyes when someone else barged into the room, disrupting the mood. Two someones, to be exact.
Fred and George charged into the room, fingers pointing, audible peels of laughter ringing from their mouths. They were saying something, and from the color of Hermione's and Ron's cheeks, it was something rather rude. As Ron leapt to his feet, wand drawn, and Hermione buried her flushed face in her arms, Harry allowed himself a silent titter. The laughter, however, was bittersweet as Harry reflected that sitting outside and looking in was no place to watch a first class Fred and George razzing. Even when you were the butt of their joke, you could never get too mad at them. They were Fred and George after all.
Eventually George had patted Hermione kindly on the back as Fred put his arms up in surrender at Ron's wand point, and the twins took their seats on either side of the couple. They were still bickering happily when Harry felt a pain like a dagger shoot straight through his heart.
Her cheeks flushed from the effort of carrying what looked like a small bathtub full of mashed potatoes, Ginny walked into the room. Her fiery red hair was done up in a ponytail that just grazed the back of a light green sundress, and her face did little to hide her displeasure (apparently at being left alone to help her mum with the cooking). The twins seeing the mountainous pile of potatoes placed by the basket of dinner rolls already present had said something in unison that darkened Ginny's face even more. She had spat something back at them and the twins only laughed heartily, but their laughter was cut short as she used the ladle to catapult a dollop of potato straight at George's face.
Before anyone could react, Ginny was under the table, two or three rolls bunched up in her arm. The twins had tried to retaliate, but in the cross fire, Ron had gotten hit by a stray roll. Not one to take that lying down, he had sent a retaliatory shot of potato that had managed to miss both twins, and nail Hermione directly on the forehead. For a moment, no one moved, unsure (and a little terrified) of her reaction. Calmly, she picked up a dinner roll, covered it thoroughly in potato, and matter-of-factly tackled Ron and started stuffing the roll in his face.
The all out food fight that ensued was chaotic, and when Bill walked in, his wife in tow, he hadn't even managed to get a greeting out before his scarred face had become yet another casualty of war. Well, Harry tried to console himself. At least my suit won't get ruined, but it didn't work. If he were to be honest with himself, he would have happily let Fred and George pour the entire tub of potatoes over him, especially if he were using his body to shield Ginny. Harry had little chance to flesh out this idea more, however, as everyone in the room froze instantly, and he thought he had a pretty good idea as to why.
Hardly a few seconds later, a tempestuous Mrs. Weasley stormed into the room, a dripping spatula in one hand, her wand in the other. At that precise moment, Harry had a very difficult time deciding which of the two weapons was more lethal. Her admonitions were loud enough that even outside Harry could nearly make them out; each word was punctuated by a violent jabbing of either the wand or the cooking utensil. Bill had raised his hand in an attempt to take the blame, but his efforts were thwarted as the rest of the Weasley children began pointing animatedly at each other, tossing accusations like hand grenades.
"ENOUGH!" he heard Mrs. Weasley bellow, shocking the rest of the family into silence, and the litany that followed, Harry suspected, was probably their mother telling them they had better get the mess cleaned up, or else. Sulky-faced, and quiet, the Weasley's confirmed Harry's suspicions as they had commenced with a healthy dose of Scourgify charms. Fred and George had went off chasing a few rogue dinner rolls that had been bewitched to dart around like miniature Bludgers, and Hermione helped Ron by licking a fleck of potato off of his eyebrow when she thought no one was looking. Aside from Harry noticing this, Ginny apparently did too, and he thought he saw her face fall a little.
The dining area clean, more platters of food seemed to arrive just as did more Weasleys. Percy had strode in looking as haughty as ever, letting his demeanor fail him only at the look of exasperation from his siblings. No one would explain, it seemed, why they were disappointed, but Harry had guessed they all rued missing their chance at having Percy as a prime target for a potato missile. Not long after Percy showed up, Charlie followed suit. This surprised Harry a little as Charlie hadn't shown in the weeks previous.
Finally, as Mr. Weasley made his way into the room, grinning as his children (along with Hermione, and Fleur) smothered him in a tirade of hugs, they had all sat down to eat. Dishes were passed around along with laughter and good cheer, and just as in his previous visits to the burrow, Harry tried desperately not to think about how nice it would be to sit there among them. When they eventually got around to actually tucking in, Harry pulled one of his sandwiches out of his bag and hungrily attacked it, willing it to taste like Mrs. Weasley's savory chicken and not like dry corn beef and crumbly bread.
He could just knock, he thought to himself as he finished his second sandwich. It wouldn't be that hard. He could just try knocking, and if they welcomed him that would be great, and if they drove him away, he at least had his other life to go back to. It was the easiest thing in the world, and before he knew it, he was standing on the Burrow's doorstep. Chatter filtered through the door to him, and he was stricken with a deep longing to be a part of it, to contribute, to laugh with them, and fight with them. To just go home.
Without realizing it, Harry's fist was poised mid air. His entire body shook with nerves as he remembered all the times he had so easily walked through this door. Mrs. Weasley would always meet him first, wrapping him tightly into a bear hug and complaining about how thin he had gotten. She would have him tucking into a plate of her delicious food before even Ron had a chance to greet him. But that was then, and as Harry began to reflect upon the hopelessness of now, he felt his fist slowly retreat from the door.
He was about to return to his root when the door flying open froze him in place. He had nearly collided head on with Ginny, the only thing saving him being a voice that called from the kitchen.
"Where are you going, Ginny?" Ginny turned to face her mother, her hand still on the doorknob.
"Just out for a bit of air, mum. It's nice out. Besides," she added, a sly grin lighting upon her face. "I've gotten used to this lot not living here anymore. It's got a bit stuffy for me."
Her jab was met with a healthy round of protest, but before it could get out of control, Ginny cut them off. "Shut it Fred, or I'll tell mum the 'new line' you and George are working on!"
"You wouldn't!" the twins answered in mortified unison.
"Fred! George! What's she on about?" came Mrs. Weasley's dangerous reaction, and Harry used the distraction to sneak back to a safe distance. As Fred and George stammered out hasty attempts to change the subject, Ginny shook her head and rolled her eyes as she closed the door behind her.
He was instantly mesmerized by her. The summer sun seemed to have no effect whatsoever on her cream colored skin, and he could feel himself gape at the simple action of Ginny pulling her hair out of its pony tail, letting soft strands of red fall carelessly over pale skin and light freckles. This was dangerous, she would hear him. How couldn't she hear his heart pounding madly as she sat on one of the old wooden steps leading to the house, pulling her bare knees to her chest as she did so?
Her chin rested on her knees and all Harry could think was that he could pick her up entirely in that little ball she made of herself. He could pick her up, and smother her and never let her go. At the same time, he couldn't even move. It was as though the sight of her coupled with that flowery scent that wafted over towards him on the warm summer breeze had paralyzed him, taunting him, torturing him.
It was then that he decided to enjoy what he had; this moment of closeness, the proximity. It wasn't nearly as close as he would have liked, but it was closer than he had been for what seemed like ages, and he let the sensation wash over him, sending his spirit soaring and at the same time killing him. He was dying, he could feel it, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
As though enjoying the effect she was having on him, Ginny smiled curiously, hugging her shins close to her, occasionally letting her fingers fiddle with her soft pink toes. He bit a knuckle hard to suppress a groan. She didn't know he was there, she couldn't. She was just lost in her own world, not even realizing that every little movement she made was dangerously close to sending her ex-boyfriend into fits of convulsions only a few short feet away.
The shadows had grown long, the sun was making ready to disappear for the night, and Harry's heart ached as he knew this moment they shared would have to end. Before it did, though, Harry watched in fascination as Ginny pulled out what looked like a small slip of paper from a pocket in her dress. It was tiny, not even maybe half the size of a Knut, but whatever it was, it must have been incredibly important because as Ginny held it before her, her smile widened a little. The smile, however, didn't reach her eyes. Instead, the brown eyes that Harry pined for so frequently began to sparkle with tears, and he could feel her forcing herself not to cry. He almost threw off the invisibility cloak right there. He almost cast off the charm. He almost ran to her, wrapping his arms around her, engulfing her whole, whispering in her ear that whatever it was, it wasn't worth her wasting a single tear on. He almost did all of these things, but actually did none.
His fingernails had dug painful little pricks of heat into his palms as Ginny sniffed, and he noticed that he stopped breathing. Inside he was cursing himself, hating himself, wishing he was anyone else on the face of the planet except Harry bloody Potter, but on the outside he just watched as the girl he loved put the paper back in her pocket, tucked the pain back deep inside, and walked back into the now twilight darkened house.
When Harry returned to the tree, he couldn't tell what was going on anymore. The entire family had moved out of the dining room, but Harry had no will to see what they were up to now. Night had fallen quickly and heavily upon him, and had it not been for the faint yellow-orangish light coming from the Burrow's windows, he would have been left completely in the dark. He watched bitterly as the lights of the house slowly went out one by one. Occasionally he could hear laughter or a scream, but for the most part as the number of lit windows went from four to three, the only sound keeping him company was the chirping of crickets off in the distance.
Now, with only two lit windows (Ron's room and Ginny's room), Harry could feel the tears again. It was the middle of summer, and yet he was cold. The invisibility cloak seemed to do little to keep him warm, and though he had wrapped his jacket around him like an extra blanket, it was far too thin to keep the cold from penetrating through. An owl hooted far off, and for some insane reason, Harry was filled with hope, but moments later it sounded more distant as it hooted again, and the anonymous hope fell. It was just an owl.
One window left. It was her room, he knew it, and that's exactly where he wanted to be. Not pulling out his broomstick and hovering up to have a look was the hardest thing Harry could remember doing, but it wouldn't be right, if any of this ever was. It wasn't like that anyway, he knew. He just wanted to see her, to watch her sleep and be peaceful. Part of him wanted her to know that even now, when he knew he couldn't have her, he would still watch over her and keep her safe. He didn't really care about himself anymore, as long as she was...
The last light went out just as Harry felt his last tear of the day roll down his cheek. Sliding down to the ground, Harry rested his head upon the knot he had used as a chair, and tucked himself into as small of a ball as he could for warmth. Sleepily looking over the opaque house before him, he yawned and whispered, "Good night," just before closing his eyes.
**
Harry's routine piggybacked him slowly but steadily along as the summer crept by at an almost unbearably slow pace. Work was work. Ernie had learnt to pay a little more attention to what he was doing, and therefore required far less life saving from Harry, though he never failed to remind Harry of his good deed just as Harry was on the verge of forgetting it. His invitations to the pub had stabilized out to a solid three per week, all hopeful but perfunctory as by now his co-workers had caught on that a few nights at the local pub just weren't Harry's cup of tea.
Somehow Friday evenings with Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs had made their way into Harry's routine as well, and as much as he hated to admit it, Harry was grateful for at least one decent meal a week. Occasionally Mr. Jacobs ("For the last time, call me Simon") would engage Harry in a discussion of what Harry was going to do with his life, but for the most part Simon and Tabby had little to offer but good food, and comfort.
While he continued to visit his parents on a weekly basis, Harry had found that their conversations were growing gradually shorter and shorter. It wasn't that he didn't want to spend time with them, he did. But he found that a curious side effect of all of his routines was that he had little news to report. Each week he found it more and more difficult to find something other than loading and unloading boxes to talk about. If he were to be completely honest with both himself and his parents, though, he would also have to admit that as the weeks drew on, he had found himself more and more anxious to return to the Burrow.
The Burrow. That was a wrench and a half. Under normal circumstances, the Burrow was bustling with activity, but as of late, the chaos had seemed to grow to epic proportions. People both familiar and strange were popping in and out, and Harry desperately wanted to know why. Of course this was difficult seeing as how he didn't dare let himself get close enough to listen to most conversations lest he be discovered.
On the brighter side of things, having the entire Weasley clan had made for some great sport. Nearly every weekend there was a pickup Quidditch match, usually on Sunday's, which were only marginally quieter than Saturdays. After the Weasley clan had split off into teams(sometimes with Hermione, or Tonks, or for one gloriously funny game, Lupin), Harry would hover just off the pitch, thankful for his Disillusionment charm. How he wished he could join in. It had been far too long since he had played in a proper match. Charlie had turned out to be a really good seeker, but what Harry really wanted was a go at Ginny. He had always respected her abilities, but as she pushed her beat up old broom around the pitch, Harry was beginning to wonder if she had gotten better than him.
But what became the true highlight of the week for Harry wasn't Quidditch, nor dinner at the Jacobs' household. It was Saturday afternoon with Ginny. Since that one Saturday when she and Harry nearly collided with each other, Harry hadn't dared to hope for that to happen again, but it did. The very next week, Ginny had again excused herself for "A bit of fresh air." And then again the week after that. Soon Harry grew dependent upon these little moments, privately drinking her in, greedily taking in her scent, letting her kill him slowly every Saturday right after supper. It was the most painful moment of his routine, but he needed it. He hungered for it. The moment she went to rejoin her family, Harry found himself stricken with unbearable loss, feeling as though he might suffocate, and frantically praying that he could make it until it happened again next week.
And so this had become his life. June had turned into a blistering July, but still Harry trudged on. He hadn't really noticed the coming of July. Honestly, he was able to keep track of the days because of work, but the weeks had all started to blend into one long anonymous chain, divided only by the markers of his well established routine.
It was a rainy Sunday in late July (or was it early August?) that found Harry sitting in his normal spot. Dinner had come and gone, and Harry was about to head back to his flat, but something kept him there. It wasn't supposed to be raining, in fact the weather man had called for yet another weekend of sun and sweltering temperatures, but here he was, Sunday evening, getting drenched through and through.
The Weasley's (and Hermione) were all anxiously discussing something. Papers and books were spread out upon the dining table where heavy dishes of food were only moments earlier. Ginny, Harry noticed, seemed listless, and nobody but him seemed to register when she had slipped away from the throng, and out the door. Her face was blank as she pulled the door closed, and she eyed the rain disinterestedly.
She had rubbed her arms almost automatically, and part of Harry wanted to cover her, shelter her from the rain, but something was about to happen, he could feel it. And there he saw it, small, but there. There on her expressionless face, he noticed the slightest twitch of an eyebrow. She slowly began to sink, and as she sat down, he saw another flicker of her other eyebrow. An eyelid fluttered, and for the briefest moment, Harry thought she was going to smile, but instead her mouth pulled into a grimace, and in an instant the rest of her face had cracked into one of complete sorrow.
She was crying, hard and fast, tears falling thicker and faster than the raindrops between them. Her shoulders rocked, and Harry could see her fingernails digging deep into her exposed knees. She was crying harder than he had ever seen her cry (not that he had many occasion to do so), and yet she didn't make a single sound. Ginny didn't want her family to know.
Unable to stop himself, Harry cried with her. Don't cry, Ginny... Please? he thought, willing her to hear him. Please don't... I wish I could, but I can't, so just… don't cry.
After a time, Ginny did stop crying, and with relief, Harry wiped at his eyes to get a better look. The moment he had, though, he instantly began wishing he hadn't. Replacing the looking of sadness on her face was a look of complete and total hatred and disgust. Her face was venomous, and when she spoke, though it was barely audible, the loathing that dripped from it had made Harry's heart feel as though it had been frozen solid.
"Happy Birthday, Harry!" she spat, and tossing something in the mud, she stormed back into the house.
Mortified, Harry found he couldn't move, his eyes glued to the door. After a few minutes his body finally gave his control back and his eyes darted to whatever it was she threw to the ground. Recognizing it immediately, he picked up the slip of paper he had seen her gaze at during their Saturday afternoons alone. It turned out not to be a slip of paper at all, but instead a very tiny photograph. The rain hadn't ruined the picture at all, and Harry felt as though someone had cut his stomach open as he watched himself, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny all staring back at him happily. It was the last time the four of them were together and happy, a picture Mrs. Weasley had snapped of them exactly a year ago today; Harry's birthday.
As the memories of that perfect day flooded into Harry's mind, he turned the photograph over, and on the back, heavily blotched by the rain, and flecked with mud, Harry could just barely make out two words.
"Welcome Back!"
**
Apparating into a dark alley, questions flooded Harry’s mind. How could he have missed his own birthday? How could he... The questions came too fast for him to cope, and the only thing he knew for sure was that he had to get out of there. He had to get out of there before he went insane, and something inside him said he had to go get drunk. Stashing his cloak into his bag, Harry quickly took off the disillusionment charm, and stowed his wand before ducking out of the urine-scented alley.
The noise from the pub assaulted him before he even pushed upon the door, and when he did enter, he immediately began to hack at the plume of smoke that attacked him. This is where they went every weekend? he asked himself a little indignantly. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes filled his nostrils and Harry began to rethink this course of action when a familiar voice reached him through the din.
"Bless me soul! It's 'ARRY!" Ernie broadsided Harry aggressively, wrapping an arm around him a little too tightly. "Look boys, it's 'Arry!" he repeated a little shakily as he wheeled Harry around to face a table with several other boys Harry's age seated at it. Piers' familiar face had turned to look, and the moment his eyes caught Harry's, they went wide.
"Wow! Hey Martin," he said, nudging a scruffy, dark haired boy Harry barely recognized. "Go run outside and check to see what color the moon is. Bet you five quid it's blue. Better yet, why don’t you have a poke down there,” Piers said as he pointed towards the ground. “Fetch us a weather report. I reckon it’s a bit chilly. Bloody Hell."
The entire table got up and issued Harry a hearty round of hugs, as they ushered him into a seat. The seat was apparently already spoken for, but it's previous owner seemed ill disposed towards confronting a group of young men, the smallest of which being Harry (who wasn't all that small anymore). Harry was a little bothered by this, but even the man who gave up the chair seemed to take it all in stride, as though getting strong armed out of your seat was all part of the rustic charm of the place.
"Wotcha, 'arry, what fin'lly drug ya out?" Ernie was asking as he tried flagging down a particularly weary looking barmaid.
"Oh, well, I only just got in," Harry offered, pointing to his bag. "And it's my birthday, so I reckoned why not?"
"Blimey. It's your birthday? Oh ho, mate, you're far too sober this late in the day if it's your birthday. As I always say, any birthday you can remember is a bad birthday," Piers proffered sagely.
"Oh, stuff it," Martin snorted at him. "Yeh only been drinkin' for not a year yet. What do you know?"
"Oi! Wench! Over 'ere!" Ernie yelled over the two of them. Harry saw the young, but rather tired looking barmaid with blond curls roll her eyes as she made her way to them.
"Ernie," she began in a nasally drawl. "Don't yeh be callin' me wench or I shan't let you cop a feel for a month."
"Sorry Maddie," he apologized as he gave her an appropriately chastised look. The face didn't last as it quickly split into a grin when Ernie continued, "me mate 'ere needs a pint, fast!"
"'oo's 'e?" she asked nodding in Harry's direction.
"Whassit matter? It's 'is birthday it is. Come off it, get the man a pint, luv." She eyed Harry apprehensively, and finally Ernie decided to explain. "Remember that bloke I was tellin' yer about? The one 'oo saved me life? This is 'e."
That seemed to satisfy her, and she gave Harry a warm smile as she shuffled off into a cloud of smoke.
“He’s sweet on her,” Martin whispered to Harry. “That’s why we get the special treatment.”
“Whaddya mean?” Harry asked in confusion.
“What, you never been in a pub before?” Piers butted in.
“No,” Harry said plainly.
“Look around you, mate,” Martin continued whispering, though from the embarrassed look on Ernie’s face, Harry had guessed he heard everything. “You see anyone in here waited on hand and foot?”
Harry shook his head, and Martin finished explaining. “Too right you don’t. Maddie only does it for Ernie cuz they’re all hot for each other, but they try an’ play it off. Bit gross really.”
“Shut it,” Ernie admonished, and Martin fell silent.
Harry didn't have much longer to wait before the foamy pint was put before him, and he felt a gentle squeeze on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Maddie smiling at him as she whispered, "Thanks for that." She nodded at Ernie in explanation, and continued, "this one's on me. 'appy Birthday." And with a quick peck on the cheek she had made her way back to the bar.
Harry laughed at all the right moments, and answered all the questions he could without getting too deep in the conversation. The only thing he really paid any attention to was the beer. He didn't just want to get pissed, he wanted to get absolutely demolished. He was well on his way, too, when he heard a strange tapping in the background.
At first he thought it was just the beer playing tricks on him, but the tapping got louder, and he finally looked to see where it was coming from. It took him a second to realize that the sound was coming from the window beside them, and when he saw what was making it, he felt the nearly empty glass drop from his hand.
"Hedwig?"
"No mate, that's what us educated folk like to call an owl," Piers chided him, but Harry didn't take his eyes off of the snowy white owl.
"No," he muttered, not even realizing he was replying. "That's my owl."
And without another word he went to the window, desperately looking for the latch. Finding it, Hedwig nearly bowled him over when he finally managed to get the window open, and he immediately saw the letter attached to her leg. By now, his companions were eyeing Harry in complete amazement but he didn't care. All he cared about was that his owl, the owl he hadn't seen in months, was now perched on his shoulder as his shaking fingers fiddled with the small envelope she had brought him.
He read the contents. He read them again. He blinked the last little bit of alcohol haze from his eyes, and read the letter one last time. The rest of the boys were staring at him in anticipation, obviously wanting to know what the hell the letter was about, let alone why it was delivered by an owl to a pub of all places. They would be disappointed as he continued to stare at the parchment in his hands. For two whole minutes he stood there before saying, "I've got to go."
They had tried to stop him, but he was already out the door. They were fast on his heels but the moment the rest of the young men had gained the cool night air, Harry was nowhere to be seen.
Epilogues, Part I: Shadows by Grimmrook
Chapter Notes: Alright folks, I think it's time we turned up the emotion a bit, yeah? Well here you go. Again, I wanna take a quick moment to thank my betas Rosebeth, Critmo, and hpmaniac666. Without you guys, this story would probably already be buried in a dustbin. And please please please leave a review. Here's your playlist for this one. Blue October "Hate Me" tops the list. That song is so perfect for this chapter it's ridiculous. As I'm a big fan of Staind, "Outside" has to be in there. Story of the Year, "Anthem Of Our Dying Day". And let's take it old school and thrw in Babyface with "When Can I See You Again," and two from Brian McKnight, "Anytime" and definitely, "One Last Cry". Oh, almost forgot, Hawthorne Heights "Niki FM", and Stone Sour "Bother" work well too. Remember please review, and if you have any songs that would fit in the playlist, I'll throw them in the author's note if you leave a review!
Note, I'd like to send another special thanks to hpmaniac666 for the inspiration. You really need to go read her fic "To Be This Lost Inside Ourselves." That fic inspired this chapter and the second chapter, and so if it weren't for her, this whole story probably wouldn't exist.
Thanks Charlotte.
**