She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around the man she loved. Tears threatened to seep out and ruin her painstakingly applied mascara, so with a quiet sniffle that she had become too closely acquainted with over the last months, the red-haired girl shakily sucked in her breath and closed her mind off from her situation, focusing on the feel of him through her thin dress and his wrinkled dress robes. Her mind wandered to a time not too long ago when Harry had not been so despondent â“ even with the seemingly perpetual incarnation of death shadowing his every footstep â“ and she wondered at the paradox. Her arms tightened impulsively around his slack body, remembering all too well how close she had come to losing him and how much her heart had ached with worry and pain. Still, she would have preferred the danger and anxiety of that time to the fractured man that stood before her presently.
But Harry had not needed her then. He needed her now.
The irony of the situation struck the girl and she could not help but quirk a side of her mouth in a pathetic facsimile of a smile.
Everything was supposed to be alright after the warâs end, but at times, it seemed like everything had just gotten worse, especially for the boy â“ or rather, man â“ in her arms.
While others rejoiced at the end of the war, he had suffered. He had helped them rebuild their lives, at least at first before the crowds had chased him away, and then he had been aimless, purposeless in his existence. Nothing he could ever do would ever match up to a deed he wished he had never had to commit.
A childhood â“ stolen, wasted.
She couldnât imagine living her life under the strain of a battered childhood and a death sentence. Her family had always been such an integral part of her life, leaving her utterly distraught when Fred had died at Lestrangeâs hand. She couldnât even imagine what it would have been like to have no one to depend on. The lack of a comforter, a father, a friend would have destroyed a lesser man. And now, now when he could finally live his life, everything had come back to haunt him.
She had watched him withdraw from the world and take bitter solace in the fuzziness and unconsciousness that lay behind every empty bottle. His flat, so empty and clean in the beginning, had become little more than a tale of despondency. Clothes lay scattered everywhere; bottles littered the floors; and the furniture all still looked new except for the bed, filled with sheets he never cleaned and filth he never seemed to notice. The first time Ginny had been brave enough to suggest he improve his living conditions, he had shrugged at her. You do it yourself if you even care, his posture seemed to say. And she did, if only to attempt to maintain a sense of order in a house and home filled with despair.
At times, she despised him for his weakness, his selfishness, his laziness. Despised him because he had given up on life itself. Once, she had said, in a fleeting moment when he had caught her unawares with a new fault â“ perhaps, his rotten toothbrush or the stale food in his pantry, âWhat would your parents think of you now?â She had immediately regretted it. She still remembered the look he had given her, still remembered how deep it had cut him. She had seen the first trace of true feeling on his face in months at that moment before it had quickly vanished and he had stumbled into his bedroom, locking the door roughly behind him. She had heard the quiet pop of a bottle before she Disapparated, had known that she would remember the look of utter despair and humiliation that had recaptured his face â“ but deeper and sadder this time â“ for the rest of her life. She would do almost anything to spare him even an ounce of that pain.
She had never mentioned his parents again. Voldemort, it seemed, had stolen a lot more from him than he could ever have taken from Voldemort. He had stolen Voldemortâs life; Voldemort had stolen his soul.
Harry pulled away from her embrace and adjusted his robes, frowning slightly at their dishevelled nature. âWerenât you going to wash these last week?â he asked haggardly.
She looked at him, stared intently at his deadened, emerald eyes, and willed him to return. âI forgot,â she simply said.
âOh.â Silence enveloped them.
The girl sighed. He always put up such a brave veneer in front of others. Some suspected the truth of course, but no one had witnessed it the way she had. At all the Ministry gatherings that Shacklebolt had heckled him into, Harry was always properly dressed, a stiff smile in place. No one noticed how his motions were always erratic, dysfunctional, how he said little and ate less, and how, whenever someone thanked him for his part in the current peace, his smile would get a little stiffer. It always seemed to cost him a great effort to manage a âthank you.â
Not that anyone couldnât tell that the man they now knew was not the boy of the past, but they were too swollen with the spoils of victory to allow the state of their hero to bother them. He was their tool, their machine, and he had done his job. They preferred to attribute his new âseriousnessâ as the Daily Prophet called it to growing maturity, as if he had not already aged well beyond his years in the fight against Voldemort. Of course, some noticed, but most said little or did not care enough to mention anything at all. Shacklebolt was one of the few who cared enough to mention it, and his comment was scathing. He had pulled the girl aside one evening and whispered quietly, âTake care that you do something about him â“ it does no good for the public morale with him looking the way he does.â He had smiled conspiratorially at her before mingling, once again, with the crowd and disappearing from sight.
If she had not been so startled, she would have laughed at him. Her? Fix him? Impossible. Didnât he know that she had already tried her best? Didnât he know how hard it was for her to go back and back again to a broken man and spend her days with him in the shadows when all she wanted to do was bask in the sunlight? Didnât he know how much she loved Harry and how much she would do to spare him his misery?
But that was not what Shacklebolt saw. Harry was merely another player â“ albeit an important one â“ in his political game.
âGinny, letâs go.â Harryâs quiet words broke through her thoughts and she allowed him to lead her to the door. He dropped her arm gently, like he always did, and quickly applied an Anti-Wrinkling Charm to his robes. It was not as effective as the real thing, but it would do. Another charm banished his firewhiskey-tainted scent, replacing it with a currently popular cologne. Personally, she hated the smell of that cologne. It seemed fake to her, forever tainted by association. It was just another part of a façade.
He pulled her through the door before shutting it and fixing the wards. Originally, those wards had been put in place when many of the escaped Death Eaters were still on the run. Now, he used them to keep others out. Ron, Hermione, her mum . . . the list went on and on.
But never, ever her.
She never knew if she should thank the gods or rail against them concerning his treatment of her. He obviously needed her â“ that much was evident even to her jealous mind. He clung to her with the same desperation that a boat being pulled out with the tide clings to the dock. There was a quiet anxiety to his movements around her, and they were sorrowfully touching and eerily loving. She could begrudge him nothing and always thought back to how he favoured her when she had had a particularly trying evening attempting to coax him from his perpetual gloom. Her childish jealously of their schooldays had given way to self-assurance. She was secure in his affection for her, reassured in his limited caresses. He was her Prince, even if he would never accept his crown.
They stepped out into the chilly outside air and he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close to him. Many were outside in the hustle and bustle of the New Years, as they, too, approached their own New Years gathering. Harry and Ginny were heading to the Burrow. It would be a rather small gathering â“ just a few members of Order and all of the Weasleys of course. It seemed that Shacklebolt had tired of his Golden Boyâs presence, the girl thought sardonically. There had been no Ministry invitation this time.
They reached the Apparation point with sudden abruptness. He stopped first, pulling her behind him into the secure alcove, shielded from Muggle eyes. His arm clung to her side as he shifted in the cramped quarters, and she momentarily relished the normality of the situation. This is how a couple should look, she thought with sudden clarity, Happy and normal and enjoying each otherâs company. Not in depression one moment, silence the next. The smell of firewhiskey lingered in the dark alley, a remnant of a previous guest who had perhaps had too much to drink at a New Years gala. She had done more than her share of drinking in the past â“ light-hearted, recreational fun â“ but now, she reviled alcohol, hated it because of what it had done to him. Without it, Harry wouldnât be able to hide so consistently from his doubts, his fears, and maybe, just maybe, she would have been able to get through to him.
Ginny waited until he was gone before she, too, Apparated. She met him on the Burrowâs front lawn.
She had grown up there, lived there, cried there, and laughed there, but now, as they approached the door, hand in hand, she could not help but see her loving home through his eyes. The familiarity, the fear, the disgrace mixed in those endless, green seas of turmoil â“ it was all there.
Her hand stilled before it made contact with the door, and lightly tapped it â“ unsure of what, she did not qualify. Yet despite the noise inside, the door opened immediately to her motherâs bustling face, as if she had been waiting for them to show up all along. âCome in, come in,â she said, wrapping them both in hugs as she ushered them in. âHarry and Ginny have arrived, dears,â she cried out, causing a wave to rush out to greet them. The girl chanced a look at the boy in between exchanging pleasantries with Professor McGonagall and she noticed his withdrawn face and clenched fists. She sighed in understanding. He was always so humiliated and fearful in front of those who knew him best, feeling as if he had let them down. She had gathered that much from one of his alcohol-fortified ramblings that were never discussed or acknowledged the next day.
She was just about to reattach herself to Harryâs side when Hermione came up and pulled her to the side. âHow are you holding up?â she asked worriedly, shooting a pointed glance at the boy.
The girl sighed and shrugged her shoulders. What could she say? He hadnât gotten worse. Besides, if she was honest, in some fantasy of fantasies she had hoped that the New Years might magically change him. She needed the hope.
Hermione continued distractedly. âItâs called depression, you know. At least thatâs what the Muggles call it â“ when someoneâs like . . . that.â She waved an abstracted hand in his general direction, her face alight with detached eagerness. âThereâs all sorts of books on it and Muggles have medications for it too. Iâm sure St. Mungo would have something for it as well though. Probably more effective.â She frowned. âI canât imagine that Harryâs the only one whoâs ever been like that.â
Ginny nodded, vaguely. It took all of her willpower not to hit Hermioneâs self-righteousness face. Of course he was depressed. Of course he had changed. Only a complete fool would think otherwise, and she was no idiot. Her vagueness seemed to annoy the bushy-haired scholar who narrowed her eyes in a close approximation of Professor McGonagall before nodding to herself and returning to her train of thought. The red-haired girl put little thought to the meaning of the nod or the words for that matter. She was in no mood to pick the mind of another and listen to prattling that she was sure would not help Harry. His âdepressionâ was not a normal one, borne of sorrowful events or miscalculation. Rather, it seemed to come from a lack of purpose, aimlessness. He felt as if his worth in life was over.
Ginny focused her attention on the green-eyed boy across the room who had captivated her ever since she was eleven years old as her pretentious friend babbled on. He seemed marginally more relaxed than when he had entered and she fervently thanked whoever it was that had set him even a little at ease for their assistance. Today was New Years Eve. She would rather start another year off on a better note.
It was with this vaguely hopeful manner that her eyes spun around to absorb the rest of the setting. The room, she knew well, since she had often played in it as a child, but it seemed as if her parents had done something to make the room look wider. Perhaps, an addition of wizarding space (now that they could afford it) or a brief dust-up of unneeded objects had made the difference. Her eyes lingered on many of the professors from Hogwarts, Luna, Neville, her brothers, and many of her fatherâs Ministry friends.
Caught in the midst of her musings, Ginny suddenly felt familiar eyes burning into the side of her head. With an almost imperceptible sigh, she turned to the unwanted intruder as Hermione stopped mid-sentence, shooting her a cautious glance. âAaron.â Ginnyâs greeting came out staccato and hesitant.
âGinny, how are you?â he propped himself up against her side of the sofa. âHermione.â The other girl was an afterthought.
Hermioneâs eyes narrowed at the slight and she gave a slight toss of her head as if to indicate what she thought of the handsome Aaron Pewter. âIf youâll excuse me, Ronâs waiting for me by the punch table.â She barely waited for a nod of acquiesce before scurrying off in Ronâs direction. The happiness and contentedness radiating from her friend made Ginny wince with sorrow and guilt. She had often wished that she had fallen in love with an easier man or even that her and Hermioneâs fortunes were reversed, but she knew that she would always love Harry. Harry and Ginny had been inevitable ever since seven years of schooling and adventure had conspired to draw them together.
She glanced quickly at Aaron and noticed that his face had curled into a slight sneer at the sight of Harry. The girl sighed. Why had her mother insisted on inviting him?
âWhatâs he doing here?â Derision coloured Aaronâs voice.
âI donât know who youâre talking about.â Her voice was tired.
âYou know who Iâm talking about. Harry Potter, of course.â The way in which he spat out the boyâs name reminded her vaguely of Snape. She wondered, fleetingly, how the Potionâs Master was doing beyond the grave.
The girl said nothing. Aaronâs line of questioning was tryingly familiar.
She wondered when the boy would either leave or come over to ask her to go home. With Aaron here, he was sure to disappear soon. She only hoped that he chose to take her with him instead of leaving outright. Ginny always felt depressed herself after a talk with Aaron, and she would rather not deal with Harry tonight when she was in a mood. That never ended happily, especially when she became exasperated with his continued unresponsiveness. She didnât know how much longer she could handle her delicate relationship with Harry without giving out.
Aaron shifted next to her into the seat that Hermione had vacated and shot her a soft smile. Ginny returned it half-heartedly and peered at Aaron again. With smooth black hair and a tall stature, he was as handsome as they came and rich to boot. Sometimes, Ginny wondered why she had to have fallen for someone as difficult as Harry, why her heart couldnât have settled for someone like Aaron who desperately wanted to make her happy. But the thought was fleeting. It would do no good to ponder something her heart would never agree to.
As she lapsed into quiet conversation with Aaron â“ about work with the Holyhead Harpies and the current events of the time â“ she settled herself into the conversation, intent on enjoying even a little part of her evening. Aaron was humorous and intelligent and, if she was truthful, it was not hard to enjoy the dialogue. A laugh easily escaped her lips during a discussion of the Harpiesâ playoff chances, surprising even herself.
Just as they had started to argue the Ministryâs newest position on flying carpets, she saw Harry approaching her from the opposite side of the room. Ginny had the almost irrational urge to will him to halt and to return home himself. For once, she was enjoying the evening and didnât want the illusionary normality that Aaron provided to fade. It would not be too late to return to melancholy the next day, she reasoned in her mind. She wanted to enjoy New Years Eve and the New Years. Surely, that was not asking too much of a boy she had continually supported for the last half year since Voldemortâs defeat.
Turning back to Aaron, she displayed a blinding smile as he conceded her point and opened her mouth to rub in her triumph when she felt a light tap on her shoulder and soft words whispered in her ear. âGinny, letâs leave.â
The girl felt the insatiable urge to deny his request and to make him go home alone. But custom kept her in place and her head nodded with some reticence. She turned, fully, to look at him and she noticed the glimmer of a painful shadow that had appeared on his face as he sensed her reluctance. All at once, she felt immeasurably guilty, as if she had openly committed infidelity, and her heart cried out for the boy she loved. Her hand turned to grasp his hand. âCome on.â
A tale-tell flicker of indecision on Harryâs face nearly undid her. She knew what he would say; she knew he would urge her to stay. He had always fought with a feeling of inadequacy, nurtured by his time with the Dursleys. She would not have him feel inferior to Aaron, especially when she was truly his and his alone.
âYou disgust me, Potter.â Aaronâs callous words rang out, stopping Ginny as she made to stand up and leave. Instinctively, her hands clenched into fists and she moved to Harryâs side. Her eyes flashed at Aaron, willing him to dissemble and apologize. She felt Harryâs back tense by her side, even as his eyes never left the ground.
âLook at you. They say you saved us from Voldemort, but Iâve never seen a hero so depressed. What are you so burdened by anyways? The fact that thereâre no more dark lords for you to kill anymore?â Aaronâs voice was mocking, but controlled. He didnât want to make a scene. His words had only one intended victim and one unintentional casualty.
But Harry refused to meet Aaronâs eyes as he abruptly turned as if to head off in the opposite direction, Ginnyâs hand still clasped in his. Harryâs eyes met hers briefly. âSee you later, Ginny.â The words were sorrowful and breaking. He avoided her gaze as he disentangled his hand from hers, letting her arm fall limply by her side.
Aaronâs voice rang out again, preventing Harry from escaping. âYouâre a coward, Potter. Youâre no Gryffindor. I donât know how she puts up with you.â
Harry turned, ignoring Aaron. The only sign that he had heard him came from the few, soft words that fell from his lips that only Ginny was close enough to hear. âI donât know how she puts up with me either.â
-----
Ginny sighed as she arranged her cloak in the closet and closed it quietly. Numb after his cold, heartbreaking words had pierced her with worry and disbelief, Ginny had allowed herself to be re-seated by Aaron and handed a glass of punch, which she had absentmindedly sipped until her motherâs worrying gaze had woken her from her stupor. A sudden panic had overtaken her, wondering what sort of state Harry would be in and her rushed exit was sure to cause as many whispers as Harryâs exit without her would. Hopefully, the occurrence would be forgotten in the bustle of the New Years. It was sure to be near midnight soon.
Steeling herself for the scene â“ sure to be strewn with bottles of firewhiskey â“ Ginny lingered for a split second longer in the doorway, her foot propped against the wall as she heard the familiar sound of Harryâs breathing come from the other room. Treading upon the well-worn path, Ginny slowly walked over the empty expanse leading up to his room, shivering slightly as her bare feet continuously made contact with the icy oak floor.
The girl knocked quietly on his door before opening it without waiting for an answer. At first, when the pattern had first been established, she had always waited for a grunt or some sort of acknowledgement before entering, but after a sleepless night only solved when sheâd decided to barge in unannounced at 2 AM in the morning to find Harry passed out drunk, she had decided to forego her manners. He had come to expect her visits anyways.
âI didnât think youâd come back.â His quiet words broke the sudden tension that had erupted when their gazes had locked. His shirt was off, strewn over the left side of his bed and a bottle sat languidly in his hand. Ginny sighed as she moved to sit next to him, sinking into a large, red pillow; the scene was utterly predictable.
âOf course Iâd come back, Harry.â She timidly played with the palm of his hand.
âPewterâs right, you know. I donât deserve you.â He shifted uncomfortably, so that he was marginally closer to her, propped up by the maple headboard.
âDonât listen to Aaron. He doesnât know what heâs talking about.â Her tone was soft, but reassuring. Surely, after all this time, he knew that she loved him?
Harry made a noncommittal, muffled sound, but otherwise remained silent, taking a sip from his bottle of firewhiskey and leaning into Ginnyâs side. She wrapped her arm around his desolate frame and held him silently, her ears catching the cacophony of noise from the New Years merry-goers outside the window.
Suddenly, the sonorous peals of the nearby churchâs bells rang through the air, and Ginnyâs heart sank. She had hoped that the New Years would be different and the day leading into it would be special, but here Harry and her were, in much the same situation that they had been in on so many countless days. Outside, the cheers and firecrackers brightly welcomed the New Year, but inside, Ginny thought bitterly, it seemed like nothing at all had changed.
Her harsh thoughts fell from her mind as she gathered a strengthened resolve to make the New Year different. She chanced a glance at the boy next to her, who seemed to already have fallen asleep and decided that this year, she would pull him out of his depression. A brief shimmer of doubt fluttered through her mind, as she vanished the half-drunk bottle of firewhiskey, but she quickly banished the feeling to the recesses of her mind, as she covered Harryâs prone form with a comforter.
Ginny knew only one way to survive.
She needed hope.
The Need for Hope by delta
Chapter Notes: This was written for hpff's Writer's Duel. I hope you enjoy it! =] And thanks to Labby for beta-ing this for me!