Shadowed

Ginny found Harry where he usually was; lying on his bed, smoking, and staring at the ceiling.

“That’s bound to be a safety concern.” She said, tilting her head as she approached him.

“Hm?” He didn’t budge, gaze on the cracks in the plaster above him.

Ginny tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Harry’s eyes flickered towards her. He wondered how, despite the stress of the war, she still managed to look so clean and youthful. There was no gray in her hair, no lines across her forehead, and no permanent frown plastered upon her face. She was skinnier than she had been, yes, not not in the way Harry was; skeletal and malnourished. In her light eyes, there was a warmth. No matter where she was, they sparkled in a way that wasn’t unlike Cedric’s. Would she still look so alive when she died? Harry found himself asking that question every time he saw her.

“Smoking in bed, Harry. That can’t be safe. What if you managed to set all of Grimmauld place ablaze?” Though her concern was serious, her voice wasn’t stern. It was soft, almost motherly.

Harry exhaled in a way that resembled a laugh. “I’ve gotten this far on luck. I’m sure accidentally burning down this shitty building is the least of my worries.” His head felt light, like it often did after an argument. He wanted nothing more than to delve into his old memories. Then again, Snape’s warning lingered. Was half an hour of pure bliss worth putting himself at risk? Without him, Voldemort would automatically win. Annoyed he had ever asked Snape in the first place, he pushed aside the thought.

Every time he had seen her as of late, it took him a moment to process Ginny’s appearance. Her hair was cut chin-length. It was a recent change, one Harry was still getting used to. Ginny had prided herself in her long hair, until a battle a few weeks ago. During which, a hag had managed to grab her fiery ponytail, and thrown her off her broom. She had nearly been killed before Harry had cast a knockback jinx on the hag, and apparated away with Ginny. She had been sobbing and hyperventilating for ages afterwards, and a haircut had helped her to prevent such a thing from ever happening again.

Ginny traced circles around the floor with the toe of her black trainers. A small smile appeared on her lips. “By the way, the Order meeting just got out. I just saw Ron downstairs. He was snogging Lavender before I could even say hello. Seemed like the two might be headed up here, just a warning.”

Harry extinguished his cigarette in the silver ashtray on his bedside table, and sat up slowly. “God,” he sighed, “When I told them to get a room once, I didn’t mean mine.”

Ginny laughed. “You can come sit in mine, if you want. Hermione’s never in there, so it’d just be us.”

“Yeah, that seems like a better option than watching Ron fuck his third girl this week.” Harry said, amused. He stood up and followed Ginny down the stairs to the room she and Hermione shared. It had originally been a guest room, one of many in Grimmauld place, and had been decked out in green from head to toe. Now, it was mostly grays and grayish-blues, which wasn’t much better. The wallpaper was striped cadet gray with a lace-type pattern. Against opposite walls were two beds, with wooden headboards that were once painted white. Now, most of the paint was chipped away to reveal rotting wood behind it. The walls were bare, except for a few shelves that held books and picture frames. They shared a wardrobe made of similar rotten wood, and there was a desk in one corner that had no chair. It was the exact opposite of Ginny’s room in the Burrow, Harry noted. There was hardly anything personal about it. Ginny’s previous bedroom had been colorful, and covered with posters and little stuffed animals. She had slept with a stuffed owl even into her teens. Harry couldn’t help but wonder if it was still around.

Ginny sat on her bed, patting on the dull pink sheets next to her. Harry sat, his thigh pressed against hers. She was wearing shorts and a tank top, compared to the usual long sleeves and jeans. While the Order had been meeting, she had returned from a mission with Dean. The two had been assigned to fly at certain levels out of Voldemort’s radar, carrying radios, to see if they received any frequencies from Death Eaters. It was a futile, desperate attempt to get a hold on the other side's communication. From the lack of word he had received about the results, he assumed they had been negative.

“How did your mission go?” Harry asked anyway.

Ginny shrugged, but Harry could see she cared more than she let on. “It was stupid, sending me and Dean out like that. They’ve tried before. The Death Eaters don’t communicate via radio. Even if they did, the waves would be magical somehow, so that no matter what we try, we won’t be able to pick up on them. Kingsley knows. He’s just wasting our time while he tries to think of a solution, I guess.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault at all, Harry.” His name on her lips sent warmth through him. “I just wish we weren’t limited to mission repeats with the hopes that something will have changed.”

“The Order was discussing a possible skirmish. There are Death Eater camps in forests throughout Europe. We could probably take out a few of their numbers if we surprise them.”

“That could work, I suppose. What about the prison raid?”

“We don’t have enough information, apparently, because Snape’s a shitty spy.” He scoffed.

Ginny’s hand lightly landed on his shoulder. When he didn’t move, like he did sometimes when he was upset and didn’t want physical touch, she squeezed it lightly. “How did the meeting go? You seem… out of it.”

Harry sighed. “Same old. There’s always someone picking a fight in there. Hermione did this time. She’s still adamant about using the dark arts, even though I’ve told her multiple times that it wouldn’t help our cause. Ron was being an ass; he always is when he has to be around Snape and Kingsley at the same time.”

Ginny continued to rub his shoulder soothingly. He couldn’t help but lean into her touch. At that, her other hand began to massage his opposite shoulder as well. “Those meetings always sound like hell. I wish there was some way you didn’t have to be included in all of them.”

“I have no choice. I’m their icon. Their symbol of hope. It doesn’t matter what my opinions are. It matters what I stand for. That’s the only reason I’m even a part of the Order.”

Ginny shook her head, the movement of her bob mesmerizing. “You do matter, Harry. You’re more than just the boy who lived. You’re one of the most talented fighters here. And,” she continued, to Harry’s surprise, “you’re one of the only people in here who’s still clinging to humanity. Look at Kingsley, or Remus, or Bill. They’ve turned into pure soldiers. I never see them smile any more. It’s almost like they don’t feel anything. You could’ve done that long ago, made it easier on yourself. But you didn’t. Though it's hard, you retain your emotions, and that's one of the reasons you’re so adamant about not using the dark arts. I wish you’d give yourself more credit.” Her eyes were so bright, they seemed to contain flames. She’s the most alive person within this entire building, Harry thought. The thigh against him seemed to warm his entire body. His heart felt like she had lit it ablaze, and the more it burned, the more he needed her.

In a split second, his hands were in her hair. It was soft and slightly damp from a recent shower. His lips crashed against hers fiercely. She gasped into his mouth, and deepened the kiss. Her hands were still on his shoulders, and the grip on them tightened. He swore there were butterflies in his stomach that multiplied at every touch of hers. Was that what it was like, to have a pure soul? If he used dark magic, he wouldn’t be able to enjoy this. Moments like this were what kept him going.

Though he and Ginny had kissed dozens of times, every time felt new. The way her face fit perfectly into his grasp. He traced her jawline with the pads of callused fingers. When he brushed against the skin under her ear, she squeezed his shoulders so hard, it felt like she was clinging on for dear life. Harry wanted more than anything to explain how much she meant to him. How she understood him like no one else could. How, if it weren’t for her and Ron, he probably would’ve killed himself long ago. She kept him grounded. She made him think logically, instead of acting blindly. He wanted to tell her his fears about the war, and his doubts about the use of only light magic. For ages, he had wanted to say those three words that seemed to curse everyone he said them to.

Instead, he kissed her passionately, over and over again. He had never been any good with words, anyhow. Time seemed to fly by as the two moved their lips against each other. Neither was in any rush. When they were in the privacy of a quiet room, it almost felt like there was no war. Harry felt like they had all the time in the world to love each other.

The door opened without warning, and Harry’s mouth and hands left Ginny. Her’s did the same. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that her face was bright red, as the pale Weasley’s often were. Her hair still looked perfect somehow. He couldn’t say the same for his, he bet.

In the doorway stood Hermione. Her hair was braided tightly, and knotted into a bun near the back of her head. She pursed her lips in slight annoyance. Harry wondered if Hermione was one of those who had become a pure soldier. The only time he saw her express any form of emotion was when she would talk about the dark arts. Near the beginning of the war, she had been sent off to learn more on healing. A different woman had returned. No longer was she anywhere except the hospital ward. Ginny claimed that she never slept either. A machine, running on the hopes that she would be able to save everyone. Harry had learned from his nightmares and battlefield fights that hardly anyone could be saved, and had given up trying. He had tried to get closer to Hermione time and time again. They had grown distant, so he had approached her in the hospital ward and started a conversation. It always went two ways; she would either push him away by claiming to be too busy, or push him away by beginning an argument over dark magic. He assumed they were still friends, since nothing had happened to make their relationship break, but he often wished she had stayed on the field instead of becoming a healer. Maybe then, their relationship would’ve remained more intact.

“Sorry, am I interrupting something?” Hermione asked apologetically.

Harry felt his own cheeks flush. “No,” he said quickly. “I was just asking Gin for more details about that mission she and Dean got back from.” He glanced over at Ginny, and saw she was looking at him. Harry nodded ever so slightly, then stood up, and walked out of the room as quickly as he could so he didn’t have to make eye contact with Hermione.

Once out in the hallway, he headed back up to his room, opening the door just as he remembered the warning Ginny had given him. He panicked, half expecting to find a scene straight from a porno. Instead, Ron was sitting on his bed, reading. When Harry entered, his head popped up.

“What’re you reading?” It was at least four inches thick. Ron was nearing the middle of it, and countless pages appeared dog eared.

Ron held it up so the cover could be seen. It read “The Second World War: A Complete History.” On the front was a black and white photo. The color scheme reminded Harry of the bedroom he was currently in. It wasn’t much different from Ginny and Hermione’s, except that the wallpaper was a sickening red (Ron’s request), and there was a large picture frame hanging on the wall by the door, of most of Dumbledore’s Army. They were all laughing. Harry had often walked in to find Fred staring at it wistfully.

“Charlie suggested I research World War II. I guess he learned about it in Muggle Studies. He said that Voldemort’s just like Hitler. He’s right, for the most part. Same tactics and motives. Except,” Ron lifted the pages with the corner of his thumb, then watched them fall as he brought his thumb up, “Voldemort’s not making the same mistakes as Hitler. His plans seem to be foolproof. He has precautions for spies, intercepted radio signals, and shit like that. I’m reading this to see how the Allied Powers won, and hoping I can learn something from their moves. Except, if we made a single move that they did, we’d all be killed. God, sometimes I wish we were all muggles. War would be so much easier.”

Harry couldn’t help but agree. He didn’t know much about the major Muggle wars, but he knew enough to understand Ron’s point. There wasn’t a point in him researching. Ron was one of the major people in charge of war strategy. On the other hand, Harry could barely get a say in on most plans before Kingsley or Moody would find some excuse to cut him off.

“Do we have any more picture frames like that?” Harry asked randomly, eyeing the DA photo.

Ron, back to reading, took a few seconds to reply. “Don’t think so. If you really want some, you could ask someone to run over to Sainsbury’s. I’m sure they’d have some. Do we even have that many photos, though?”

“Yeah, I still have my photo album from Hagrid somewhere.” Harry said. He walked over to the worn trunk next to the wardrobe. Inside was a collection of random books and papers. Moving aside a copy of “The Tales of Beedle the Bard,” he found a leatherbound book. Inside, almost every page was full of moving pictures. Most of them were of Lily and James, and had been collected by Hagrid as a present for Harry his first year of school. However, there were also more recent additions that Colin had given Harry from his own collection during sixth year. There were lively pictures of Gryffindor parties, the Quidditch stands roaring as the team scored, and even a few of Colin and Harry that the younger boy had been willing to part with. Harry remembered multiple times that Colin had thrust his camera into some random person’s hands, then posed with Harry, and asked the person to take as many pictures as needed. He had to have had over a hundred, with at least ten or more in the album alone.

One photo in particular mesmerized him. It was of Colin standing next to Harry, who had to be at least a foot taller, and struggling to put his tiny arm around Harry’s shoulders. Harry then leaned down slightly, put his own arm around Colin’s shoulders, and Colin’s grin grew even wider as he gave a thumbs up. Then, the photo would loop again. Harry watched it a few times, saddened by his pained smile compared to Colin’s genuine excitement. Why was I such a prat to him, Harry painstakingly asked himself. If Colin was still around, would he still be happy at all? Or would he be miserable and stoic, a copy of everyone else?

Back when Voldemort had recently taken over the Ministry, he had been hunting down other muggleborns all over Europe. They hadn’t had much success yet. Most of the muggleborn families were either dead, or deep in hiding. Harry had been in the hospital ward with Hermione. Before she was whisked away for training, Harry spent most afternoons with her when she wasn’t too busy. It had been one of those. The two had been playing two truths and a lie, which was easy, considering the two had been friends for most of their lives. Harry had learned that Hermione could play the guitar (barely, she claimed) and had never driven a car from fear of crashing. Hermione had somehow forgotten that Harry’s middle name was James, and buried her face in her hands while laughing as she apologized over and over again. Her hair had been in a single ponytail back then.

A sudden scream had pierced the air, causing both of their carefree attitudes to drop. Harry jumped up, wand already out. There were footsteps running down the hall, and the screaming grew louder as the steps grew closer to the entrance of the hospital ward. Luna burst in, eyes wide as she mouthed help. Harry was unsure if she actually said it or couldn’t get the words out, because he couldn’t hear anything except the never ending shrieking. Next to her, with his arm around her shoulders, was Colin Creevey. Except, he was horribly mutilated. Harry watched in horror as his skin flayed itself and pieces fell to the floor like ripped paper.

“Put him in the bed.” Hermione managed to stammer. Luna helped him limp over to a free bed in between two patients who were now awake at the noise. The second Colin came into contact with the white sheets, they turned a dark maroon.

Luna was sobbing. “I was on my way to visit Neville, and he just apparated on top of me in the hall.” She said in a quiet voice. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know!” Hermione barked. “Go see if you can find Madame Pomfrey or- or anyone who knows how to heal. Snape might know-” Her voice faded off as a piece of skin on Colin’s cheek began to peel away from his muscle. Luna rushed into the hall and began to scream for help.

For nearly an hour, Harry watched as Hermione tried everything she could to save Colin. She tried to knock him out, but the curse had been maliciously crafted so that the victim had to stay conscious. A small crowd had gathered after Luna’s cries, which included both previous Hogwarts teachers and students alike. No one knew how to counter the curse. Harry had tried every possibility in the book, while Hermione had rapidly repaired the skin over and over again to keep Colin from bleeding out.

He died anyway, the screams that had haunted the halls of Grimmauld Place fading with him. The way Colin had died a slow and painful death, and Harry had been unable to save him, reminded Harry of the deaths he had seen in his dreams. Witches and wizards murdered right in front of Harry by Voldemort, yet he was powerless. Over time of having Voldemort dreams night after night, he had grown used to the feeling of hopelessness. Nothing he did could stop it. No matter what attack the Resistance threw at the Death Eaters, there were always more murders in Harry’s dreams.

The next day, Harry asked Moody for at least five hanging frames. An hour later, a grocery bag was on his bed with ten. During the day, Harry wasn’t allowed outside for fear of being recognized by a Death Eater. Though he had argued multiple times that going to a grocery store or a movie theater would put him at no greater risk than being inside of the Order’s top safehouse, Moody and Kingsley wouldn’t listen to reason. He could only go out past sunset, which happened to be when most stores were closed. To keep him from getting angry at being imprisoned, Harry was allowed to ask for anything, and someone would be sent as an errand runner to get said item. He had never mentioned the rule to anyone; it was simply too embarrassing.

Ron was in the war room with Kingsley, Moody, and other Order strategists, struggling to plan their Death Eater camp attack with little information besides what Snape had said in the meeting. Fred was visiting George in the hospital. That left Harry alone to hang up photos. He should’ve asked for more records as well, he thought, eying the Blue Danube. He chose six photos to nail up around the room. The ones of the Gryffindor party and the Quidditch stands were among them, along with the Weasley twins on broomsticks flying out of Hogwarts during Umbridge’s rein of terror, an overlook of the Yule Ball from the top of the grand staircase, Harry with Ron and Hermione waving awkwardly to the camera, and a group photo of the Quidditch team from Harry’s third year. Once they were scattered across the walls, Harry sat on the edge of his bed and stared at them. Why couldn’t they be alive like portraits? What he would give to be able to talk to his third year self.
He kept the photos of him and Colin inside of the photo album, along with the pictures of his parents. They were his to look at.

Ron eventually returned, and fell flat onto his bed with a groan. Harry stayed silent as his friend's body shook with silent sobs. When Fred came back from visiting George, his face was grim. He looked at the pictures around the room.

“Hey, this is pretty neat. Where’d you get all these photos?”

Harry explained about Hagrid’s photo album while Fred watched the one of the Quidditch team. His smile was pained. Ron was still facedown on the bed, but his chest was rising and falling steadily.

“Did Ron say anything about the attack they were planning?” Fred asked suddenly.

Harry leaned back on the bed. It let out an ancient creak. “Not much, just that they’re struggling to plan anything. They don’t know the locations and populations of the camps.”

“I suppose that could make it a tad bit difficult.” Fred joked. “Isn’t Snape supposed to be working for the Order? Y’know, getting information for us?”

Harry snorted. “Yep, and he hardly does anything. He knows nothing about the prisons nor the camps. I really don’t know why he’s still allowed in the Order at all.”

Fred inhaled while thinking. “Maybe he’s good for something.”

“Or, maybe, Kingsley and Moody know that if they get rid of their lone spy, it’ll be signaling the entire Resistance that we have no chance.”

Fred went silent. After a few moments, he just said, “Perhaps.” He looked at the photo once more, then walked out of the room quietly so as to not disturb Ron. Harry thought about visiting George as well, but ultimately decided against it. The hospital ward always made him depressed. He saw enough gore in his dreams; seeing it in his waking hours too just seemed like further torture.

While poking at his dinner by himself the next evening, Parvati walked by and informed Harry that Minerva McGonagall had arrived from Scotland. She had been there since the closing of Hogwarts, taking care of underaged witches and wizards who’s parents were dead or currently fighting. It was an orphanage of sorts, in a manor in Caithness. When Harry, surprised, asked if Minerva had been expected, Parvati shrugged.

It wasn’t long until he found Minerva. Or, rather, she found him, since he was sitting in the drawing room when she appeared. She looked the same as she ever had, except her hair was no longer black but a dark silver.

“It’s rather late, Harry. What are you still doing up?” She inquired. Since Harry was an orphan, Minerva treated him as her own son, which meant that he received questions like that.

“I was hoping I’d see you.” Harry replied, sitting up straighter.

Minerva sat across from him, slightly slouching compared to her previous perfect posture. “So you stayed up, hoping I would magically find you, instead of actively seeking me out?”

“Well, it appears you managed to find me.” Harry said with a smile. “Besides, I can’t sleep anyways. I had been able to, with the use of self-legilimency as a way to shield myself from visions of Voldemort, but I’ve learned that self-legilimency isn’t reliable.”

Minerva’s lips pressed together angrily. “It most certainly is not! Did you know of the risks beforehand, or did you just decide to risk your life for a few nights of restful sleep?”

“I didn’t know beforehand. It was worth it though, not having to watch people I know and love brutally murdered by Voldemort.”

Her face slightly paled, and she stood up. “I’m going to have a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?”

The two walked downstairs into the basement, where the kitchen resided. On the marble countertop, along with a few jars containing sweets, there were containers with tea bags. She picked a dark one labeled Darjeeling. While she boiled the water, the two continued to converse.

“I wanted to go out with you somewhere, perhaps to lunch, but Moody said you weren’t allowed out. Is that true?” Minerva asked with a hint of disbelief.

Harry felt his face grow red. He could always count on Moody to not have any sense of courtesy whatsoever. At least Kingsley would’ve probably come up with an excuse.

“It’s been like that for a while, since Trelawney was caught while running errands. They’re afraid the same thing will happen to me, that I’ll be recognized.”

“But Sybil was in a wizard shop! You’d be perfectly fine going into the Muggle World.” Minerva protested.

“I can go out at night. Doesn’t quite make much sense, since Death Eaters are out more at night, but that’s the way it is. I’ve tried reasoning with Moody and Kingsley, but they won’t listen.”

The kettle began to hiss with a high pitched squeal. Minerva grabbed it, and poured it into a white porcelain tea cup that had green swirls painted around it. She raised a brow when she saw Harry watching the cup.

“I’ll take a cup.” Harry said sheepishly. Minerva nodded towards a cupboard above him, and he opened it quickly and grabbed a teacup. She filled it with water, and put a matching tea bag into his.

“I’ll have a chat with Moody and Kingsley. Surely, they’ll be able to see their error in this poor decision.”

There was a length of silence. Harry put his teacup to his lips, and though the liquid burnt his throat, he drank anyway. He hadn’t drinken tea in a while; coffee was his preferred beverage. It kept him alert, and away from sleep.

Minerva lifted her cup and blew gently on it to cool it. She kept looking at Harry. He avoided her eyes. Finally, she spoke.

“Harry, how have you been? Really?”

Harry felt himself pause for too long before responding. “I’m fine.”

Even in the dim lighting, he could tell that Minerva didn’t believe that for a second. “Filius said that you saw Sybil die in your dreams.”

“I did. She didn’t suffer. He dealt with her quickly.” Harry lied.

Minerva’s voice wavered slightly. “Surely there’s some way to shield your mind from Voldemort’s.”

“The only way I’ve found that worked is self-legilimency. Even then, didn’t work all of the time.”

Her hand reached out and grasped his forearm comfortingly. “I’m worried about you. I know you have your reasons for not sleeping, but surely you can get something from the healers to help you get some rest. You also seem to be frailer every time I visit. I fear you’re not eating nearly enough.”

Here she was, treating Harry as another of her Caithness orphans. He both appreciated it and felt annoyed that she didn’t think he could take care of himself. His way of taking care of himself was not eating and sleeping. Whenever he ate, it made him tired, and when he slept, it made him throw up whatever he had eaten before. It was a ruthless cycle.

He sipped his tea, wincing when it entered his empty stomach and made him feel even more hungry. Minerva removed her hand from Harry’s arm. She took off the lid from a porcelain cookie jar. Inside was a stack of cookies, chocolate chip from the looks of it. One was set next to his saucer.

“Have this.” She insisted.

“I can’t. Eating makes me tir-”

She held up her hand to stop him. “A single cookie will not hurt, Harry.”

Reluctantly, he slowly ate the cookie, washing it down with the bitter tea that he had let steep far too long. His stomach felt worse. Eating had made him aware of just how hungry he was. He leaned against the counter and pretended not to feel the sharp pain of hunger that felt like it was eating him alive.

Harry found himself studying McGonagall’s face. He hadn’t noticed earlier, but she looked much less severe than she had at Hogwarts. A few strands of loose hair hung by her face. No longer did she wear glasses; though, that wasn’t unusual. Most of the Resistance had ditched their inconvenient glasses for a magical procedure to make their eyesight better. The demure expression she had worn upstairs was replaced by that of exhaustion.

For not much longer, they chatted about the children she was in charge of. How they were, and how tiring it was to take care of them all. Every day, there were more reports of deaths that turned young witches and wizards into orphans. Harry didn’t know how she was able to do it all. When he asked her when she was returning to Scotland, she said that she was departing early the next afternoon. She had only visited to collect information from Kingsley and Moody. When she had finished her drink, she made her way back to the Drawing room, where a cot had been configured.

It was one of those rare nights when not many people were up. Harry peered into his bedroom, and saw that Fred was fast asleep, Angelina cuddled into his side. Ron was nowhere to be seen, but he had suspicions that he was visiting Lavender in the Penrith safe house. On his bed was the book on World War II. An entire page was folded in on itself to serve as a bookmark. Harry stepped lightly over to grab the book, then proceeded to go sit on the floor out in the hall. He opened the book to the first page, preparing himself for a long night.