Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.
Thirteen
Harry: The Ghosts of Guilt
The sensation of choking on wet wool was overpowering. Swinging his head to and fro, the coughs were wrung from the depths of his stomach. He took quick, shallow breaths, knowing that the oppression would soon return in greater force.
The absolute darkness surrounding him was impenetrable to his darting eyes. It crushed his psyche without fingers, obliterated the last bit of light in his soul without touching it. He’d never experienced terror like this, not even when he’d faced his greatest enemies in battle. Dueling wand to wand with the likes of Voldemort had been a pale shadow. A prelude to this faceless, nameless terror intent on annihilating him.
Harry’s icy fingers inched over the smooth handle of the wand, clutching it to his breast as his last lifeline. Lumos! his mind screamed, his papery lips mouthing the words for emphasis.
NOX! the darkness whispered seductively in his ear as the wand rebuffed him. There is nothing to see…
He bolted upright as skeletal hands grasped his shoulder. A glacial rattle betrayed the presence of a dementor at his back.
“Expecto Patronum!” Harry cried with all his might, yet the happy thoughts skittered like cockroaches into the darkness beyond his reach. With greater effort, he marshaled his concentration and tried again, “Expecto --”
The incantation died on his lips as demonic red eyes bored into his, the sinister sensation of an alien presence in his mind making him recoil. His resistance fell away in tatters as a dark knife cut through his very brain, zeroing in on cherished thoughts of all those whom had been lost. Another’s hand closed over his wand and with a sharp jerk, it was yanked out of his slack fingers.
He fell back, clawing helplessly at the festering rags which shrouded him, his mouth yawing in a wordless scream….
“Wake up, mate!” Ron hissed as he shook Harry’s shoulder even harder. “You’re having a bloody nightmare!”
Harry fought his way back from the depths of the Black Lake, the last dregs of the dream dragging at him with sticky grindylow claws. With a throat wrung dry, he sputtered, “Wh”what? Where?”
“You’re at the Burrow,” Ron whispered. “Charlie’s old room. Mine still has the lingering scent of the ghoul, so Mum closed it off while it airs out.” His friend’s crooked grin as he issued the last reassured Harry more than anything else.
“Sorry. Did I call out again?” His fuzzy mind recalled Ron casting a Muffliato Charm towards the doorway.
“Not so much. Looked more like you were trying to strangle yourself and then you tried to hex me.” With a sheepish look, Ron replaced Harry’s wand on his friend’s beside cabinet. “Good thing I’m not sprouting tentacles, or I’d been obliged to hex you back.”
Harry sighed in frustration. “I must seem like the houseguest from hell.”
“Naw,” Ron scoffed. “The ghoul’s much worse and we haven’t evicted him.”
“Thanks. That’s just the sort of comparison a bloke relishes.”
“I’d say it was an overblown case of indigestion if you’d eaten more of the bubble and squeak.”
“It’s not your mum’s cooking…”
“Nobody thinks that, don’t worry ‘bout it.” From Ron’s voice it was clear that he was growing drowsy again.
Recalling that his best friend was likely feeling spent from his long journey back from Australia, Harry tendered, “Perhaps I should sleep in Percy’s room.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Ron muttered. “ ‘mione’s in there.”
“What about Bill’s room then?”
“George’s there. Too many ghosts otherwise.”
Harry winced as he recalled that George was likely having trouble sleeping without the presence of his twin. Running out of options, Harry suggested, “Perhaps some cold pumpkin juice for my scratchy throat.”
“Now that’s an idea!” Ron agreed as his stomach growled in commiseration. “Food always chases the boogie-man away. Dad swore by it when we used to wake him up. Granted we were a bit younger…”
So much for taking a detour by Ginny’s room, Harry grumbled to himself. But now that Ron was back, that was tantamount to stirring up a hornet’s nest anyway.
Harry sipped his juice as Ron made himself a cheese sandwich then chased it down with a chocolate frog. Satiated, he started back up the stairs as Harry lingered by the window leading out to the back porch.
“Not a good time for a walk,” Ron issued lowly, pointing towards the full moon just cresting the hillside.
Harry nodded wordlessly.
“I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” Ron relented as he slowly made his way up the stairs, his eyes glued to the silhouette of his friend staring past the window.
It was a beautiful night, Harry couldn’t help thinking, the tall grasses creating a seascape of undulating waves in the overgrown meadow. The colors were muted with the sole exception of the white wildflowers which stood out like miniature lanterns. To draw errant mooncalves from the heavens, or so the children’s fable went. It was a pull that five-year-old Remus had been unable to resist. The unbridled curiosity of a small child which had twisted the man’s life for years to come.
Harry allowed the pumpkin juice to wash over the scratchy lump in his throat as he settled himself against the window seat.
He must’ve fallen asleep; there was no other explanation. For when awoke, he was still in the moonlit drawing room of the Burrow while ambushers waited in the woods to attack once everyone was asleep. He needed to sound the alarm to wake everyone up, but no sound escaped from his throat. He cast a controlled Patronus charm, a miniature stag no larger than a spaniel to canter up the stairs unseen from the windows. It cast its doleful eyes at him expectantly, but Harry’s tongue was too thick to impart any instructions.
The stealthy shadows were approaching the house, easing themselves from beyond the twisted trees of the abandoned orchard. Their approach was timed to coincide with Harry’s eye blinks. A clever ruse, but he was not to be outsmarted so easily. Soundlessly, he inched his body backwards into the kitchen, his bulk easing the door open with each cautious step.
The shadowy veranda presented too many hiding places, he decided with mounting alarm. The wraiths could jump on the window sill and into the dark sink basin. With the bite of adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream, Harry summoned all manner of knives and other cooking implements and arranged them as silvery sentinels around the rim of the sink. An extra long boning knife he directed towards the pipes to slash any that tried to escape down the drain.
He could hear their hushed voices now: creaks of metal and whispers of wood against wood. It would not be long before his sanctum was breached, but Harry was ready for the onslaught. The rest of the house could sleep unconcerned above his head and he would see to their safety.
The heavy moon worked it way towards the far side of the house, lending its silvery brushstrokes to the opposite side of the room. The shadows retreated before his eyes, while those at his back jumped in intensity. All the in space of a heartbeat, all in the moment that his eyelids blinked.
With feral intensity, the wraiths pushed their way through the window glass as if it were nothing but Vaseline. Harry watched with grim satisfaction as they hopped soundlessly into the black maw of the sink. He could feel the fabric of the night tearing as the attackers dropped away in shreds.
The rattle of the back door knob froze him to the spot. Heedless of who awoke, a deep pounding reverberated through the timbers of the house as the sharp pinpricks of a thousand needles made Harry look down. The ribbons had woven themselves into an ebony hand that had gripped him firmly by the arm. With icy horror in his veins, Harry finally found his voice and issued a gurgled scream.
In a whirlwind of panic, he threw off his unknown attacker, scuttling on all fours past the open windows of the drawing room and into the cupboard under the stairs. Here he would be safe, Harry repeated to himself like a mantra. This is the doorway to another dimension. A place where Muggles growl with pent up purple anger, but where shadows have no substance.
Finally woken, the soft steps of the others sent plaster dust raining about his hair and shoulders. He would beckon them to join him once they reached the bottom of the stairs. As long as their feet did not touch the ground floor of the house, they would be safe from the wraiths. Harry put his eye up to the tiny keyhole but there was nothing to see but the swirling black veils which writhed in frustration beyond.
Their hunger pulsed though the floorboards and lapped at his bare feet, forcing him to scrunch into a ball atop a discarded ottoman in the back corner. He wrapped his arms around his knees and pulled his legs close, only then noticing the grey tendrils that lapped liked flames about the stark white cotton of his pajama legs. Harry shouted to warn those above to stay clear…
“Wake up, wake up! Harry, please… you’ll wake the whole house,” Ginny’s voice led him from the dark pit into a fragrant garden. Her satiny hair tangled with his as he drew her close in utter relief.
“Oh, Ginny. It was terrible. The shadows were going to take over the world!” he half sobbed into her shoulder.
“Lethifolds,” she corrected him.
“Such creatures really exist?” Harry demanded, eyes wide with fear.
“Yes, but not in England. Not for centuries anyway. They’re afraid of smoke and petrol; so as long as civilization flourishes, they’re relegated to the most inaccessible regions of the planet. Tropical rain forests and the like.”
“Then they don’t breed under the furniture?” Harry pondered with the beginnings of a sheepish smile.
“Those are free-range dust bunnies, quite domestic. Mum’s broom usually causes them to stampede.”
“I could’ve used you earlier,” he admitted in a hollow voice. “When I managed to wake Ron up for the fourth or fifth time.”
“That explains why he insisted on a snack. His internal clock --”
“”is centered in his stomach, right,” Harry finished handily.
“Any new themes?” she posed tenderly as she brushed the dark spikes of his hair from his damp forehead. In the moonlight, the edges of Harry’s scar stood like a fading tattoo against his bone-white skin.
He shook his head emphatically. “Just the worst of the lot. The one where I’m trapped inside the white marble of Dumbledore’s tomb. I mistook Ron for Voldemort coming to snatch the Elder Wand from my dead hands. Nearly hexed him in the bargain.”
“A chorus line of tap-dancing spiders would’ve been just the thing to repulse him,” she giggled into his shoulder.
“Wish I’d thought of that,” he joined in. A regular arachnid version of 42nd Street, Hermione would say; but such Muggle references were lost on Ginny. Nevertheless, being silly was so much better than succumbing to the relentless phantoms of the night.
It didn’t take an idiot to see he was seeking wisdom from the mightiest wizard of all. Would Dumbledore’s guidance in those final months have tipped the cosmic scale? If only he’d managed to save his venerable mentor, would everyone else be alive instead of gathered around the remains of a heavenly rail station?
His eyes strained against the gloom as Dumbledore’s face seemed to purse its lips sadly in the collector card Ron left behind. Or had that been a figment of his overwrought imagination as well?
He resisted the tickle of warm sunlight against his face as he snuggled more securely against Ginny’s side. From a drowsy state, Harry reminded himself that it was Saturday and the entire household would be having a bit of a lie-in. They’d be lucky to see either Ron or Hermione before noon; Molly herself had warned everyone to stay clear of their rooms until their internal clocks adjusted.
It was with a small shock that Harry heard Arthur’s voice in his ear, “Did your midnight snack ambush you before you would make it up the stairs?”
Remembering his surroundings, Harry bolted awake. Straightening his glasses with one hand, he was dismayed to find himself in his nightclothes. The glistening waterfall of Ginny’s hair was splayed against the back of the sofa at his side. Embarrassment burned in Harry’s face as he self-consciously tightened the sash around his dressing gown. Sleeping next to Ginny was not without its side effects, but he doubted that Arthur wished to be reminded of that.
Seeing the empty glass on the side table, memories of the previous night came flooding back. “Must have,” Harry mumbled as he found his voice. “Ron and I refueled in the night, but I was wide awake…”
“Did you make it a double-date with the girls, too?” Arthur tendered.
There was an edge to Arthur’s voice that made Harry sit up straighter. Dressed in her stretchy athletic wear, Ginny shifted against him.
“Ginny came down later and woke me from a nightmare,” Harry openly admitted.
“So why didn’t you both return to your rooms after that?”
“We got to talking. I was a bit spooked, you see.” Harry gulped nervously under Arthur’s relentless scrutiny.
Leaning over to shake his daughter’s arm, Arthur whispered, “Ginny, you fell asleep on the sofa.”
Ginny opened groggy eyes that turned defiant within moments of assessing her surroundings.
“Did you come down for a snack as well?” Arthur prodded.
“I heard noises from the landing and found Harry thrashing on the sofa. I woke him before he yelled loudly enough to bring everyone else down.”
“So he says.” Arthur chose his words carefully. “Is that why there’s an Imperturbable Charm around your doorway each night?”
Ginny’s mouth flew open but she closed it before any more words slipped out.
With maddening calm, Arthur elaborated, “It’s not a lucky guess on my part, either. I tripped the other night as I was coming out of the loo and barely avoided crashing into your door. It was only in the light of day that I realized only an Imperturbable Charm could cushion my fall in such a manner.”
Harry strongly suspected Arthur would have rather stubbed his toe painfully, but thought it best to keep silent.
“Your mother and I have been interrupted by George’s distress but I didn’t think those cries would filter this far down the stairs,” Arthur ventured. “Was I wrong?”
Take his lead, Ginny, Harry yelled inside his head. He’s handing it to you on a platter!
Instead, Ginny met her father’s eyes directly and told the truth. “Harry tends to cry out in the night. I didn’t want the rest of the house to wake up.”
Harry groaned inwardly as Arthur shot back, “Would either of you like a shovel so you can dig yourselves in deeper?”
Nonplussed, Ginny returned, “If you already know George has been having nightmares, it shouldn’t surprise you that Harry has, too.”
Arthur took a moment to compose his thoughts before replying, “Then I suppose I have to ask why you have become his Angel of Mercy?”
“Because he’s too old to seek out Mum!” Ginny defended. “How would that have looked? Did you work that one through, Dad?”
“I’m sorry… I should never have…” Harry began only to be shot down from both directions.
“You have nothing --”
“This is between Ginny and --”
Trying a different tack, Harry offered, “Then I should --”
“Sit!” Ginny instructed.
“She’s right, Harry, this concerns you as well,” Arthur advised. “Luckily, Molly’s still curled up tight after having spent half the night consoling George.”
“Then you know exactly what I mean!” Ginny cried. “I’m not going to feel guilty “ or ashamed “ about acts that have only been committed in your imagination!”
“What about in Harry’s imagination?” Arthur argued.
Harry felt the embarrassment rise to his face in full force. Was he just beet red or approaching his uncle’s favorite shade of apoplectic plum?
“I rest my case,” Arthur noted as he crossed his arms across his chest.
Addressing Arthur directly, Harry proposed, “Perhaps I should bother Hermione in the future. The last thing I want is to upset your household.”
“Why do you feel a need to bother anyone, son?”
Harry sighed as the words eluded him.
“Is your bed uncomfortable?” Arthur inquired with genuine concern. “I thought you’d be soothed by sharing a room with Ron like you did at school.”
“Ron’s always been a remarkably sound sleeper,” Harry attempted. “Yet I woke him a number of times.”
“Did you shake him? Shout in his ear?”
“I might as well have,” Harry succumbed.
“Dad,” Ginny mollified as she laid a gentle hand on her father’s arm. “You’re just making Harry feel uncomfortable.”
“Ginny, you don’t have to --” Harry made to protest.
“Yes, I do!” she answered fiercely. “Harry goes from nightmare to nightmare each night. Even if he walks around or gets something to drink, when he lies back down again, the demons are waiting for him.”
“Is this true, Harry?” At Harry’s pained nod, Arthur delved, “What sorts of nightmares?”
“Ones where if I don’t solve the puzzle right, everyone I care about will die,” Harry surrendered. “There’s always the promise that I might get things right, but it never works out that way. It’s always worse than before. Ginny’s presence reminds me that it’s just lies; her presence affirms that it’s not her corpse lying next to Fred’s …” He was overcome with shame as his voice broke.
Arthur squeezed Harry’s shoulder as he rose unsteadily to his feet. His grim features gave him the look of a much older man as he urged them into the kitchen.
“Let’s surprise Molly for once,” Arthur suggested with a wobbly smile. “No one can think clearly on an empty stomach. It’s the Weasley family motto.”
As he summoned the tea kettle and frying pans from the upper cupboards, Ginny wrapped her arms around her father’s waist. Walking up behind Ginny, Harry unabashedly joined in the group hug.
“I have trouble sleeping as well.”
Harry started from his chair, the shock sending unpleasant chills down his spine. He’d thought himself completely alone on the back veranda, but clearly that was not so. Looking over his shoulder, the bluish shadows resolved into George’s lanky form leaning against the outside wall of the house.
“You’re not alone,” George affirmed in a raspy voice. “The others just don’t understand, but I do.”
“I’m sorry you’ve been feeling poorly,” Harry ventured, recognizing it was a singularly lame response.
George shrugged in a dispassionate manner. “You’d wonder about me if I was jumping for joy, wouldn’t you?”
Harry suppressed a small smile. “Right.”
“Do the dead come to speak to you at night?”
Harry barely stopped himself from sharing the secrets of the Resurrection Stone. What sort of comfort would that give George anyway? The last thing the poor, grieving sod needed was to go rummaging about the forest floor in that accursed clearing.
“Not so much,” Harry answered carefully. “It’s more like I’m facing a maniacal dungeon master who sets me an unsolvable puzzle. Then the bastard cackles demonically when I fall on my face over and over again.”
He considered whether the reference to one of his cousin’s favorite computer games would be lost in translation, but George nodded solemnly to indicate he understood. “A Russian roulette of death,” he countered.
“Very much so. Remember that boggart who wouldn’t let your mum go at Grimmauld Place? Kept changing into different family members….” Harry trailed off as he recalled how Remus had been the one to comfort Molly as she blubbered all over the place. Despite the knot in his stomach, he managed to add, “I didn’t realize it was a preview of coming attractions.”
“That’s the one thing about life,” George issued in a detached tone. “You never see what’s coming at you. Fred can attest to that.”
Uncertain whether he should laugh at the gallows humor, Harry simply waited for George to elaborate. When the silence stretched on, he gathered the nerve to pose, “Does Fred visit your dreams?”
George nodded as his eyes shone brightly. “Mum persists in calling them nightmares, but I think you have it right, Harry. Dreams. Meringue landscapes of what life would be if Fate wasn’t such a colossal … Bellatrix. Makes it rather difficult to look forward to mornings.”
“I understand wholeheartedly, but Molly’s likely to think you have a distinct wish to join Fred in death.”
George nodded morosely. “Loneliness is a real bugger.” When a furtive look inside the kitchen window showed that it was empty, George confided, “They’re worried about you as well. Heard Mum and Dad whispering.”
“Did they come to any conclusions?”
“Only that neither one of them is a licensed Healer. Mum admitted this was beyond her household remedies.” Once again George blindsided him with, “I thought you’d want to be a part of the new order is all.”
“I still have to pass my NEWT’s if I intend to be an Auror.”
“Is that really what you want? Isn’t that signing up for much of the same carnage we just witnessed?”
Harry gave it a moment’s thought before replying, “Perhaps it won’t be so bad now that the world is at peace again. I just don’t want to play hero anymore. Never wanted to really, it’s just…”
“…you inherited the cape, mate,” George finished with the first hint of his usual impish manner. “Who else were they going to pick?”
“You’re right, George. No one with a lick of common sense would’ve done it.”
“It’s only mental to think yourself immortal,” George continued in a contemplative manner. “No one expects to die in battle. After all, the whole point of a war is to emerge victorious.”
“What level of loss is acceptable, then?”
“It’s war itself that unacceptable. You conveyed that very well with your brief words at the funeral.”
“We would’ve been wise to avoid the conflict entirely.”
With utmost sadness, George observed, “If we hadn’t fought back, Voldemort’s factions would’ve just enslaved us. I doubt Fred would’ve wanted that.”
“Still, I should’ve organized things better,” Harry maintained.
“The chaos we faced was not of your making, Harry. I don’t hold you responsible for the outcome.”
“Thanks. That’s a bit of consolation.”
“You just have to find a way to forgive yourself. Both of us do.”