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Author: Mangykneazle Story: There and Back Again Lane Rating: Teens Setting: AU Status: WIP Warning: Violent flash backs Reviews: 1 Words: 87,756
O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. –Hamlet, Hamlet, Act II, scene 2 London —(Ron's POV)— I can't believe I just said that. We may have to. Haven't we done enough to make them miserable? I'm wishing the whisky was still coursing through me, but I don't think Hermione would've let me survive the night. Over five years have passed since the night Harry defeated Voldemort – even thinking of his name is still hard after all this time – and I've not had a moment's peace since. Perhaps you could even say my troubles began two years earlier, when in my addled state I'd summoned that brain in the Department of Mysteries. The battle alone would have forced anyone to grow up, but that thing strangled my youth and left me with scars I sport to this day. The burdensome acknowledgement of mortality led me to make some quick decisions, sometimes good – like finally mustering enough courage to ask out Hermione – other times ill. Five years ago things seemed much different. He'd been destroyed, but many of our friends and other loved ones had died along the way. Harry was little better than dead, and only about twenty people knew he'd managed that feat. In the end, to protect him from the inevitable assault from the remaining Death Eaters and well-wishers alike, we decided to lay our Harry to rest. But not one hour ago I embraced him as a long-lost brother. We did what we thought was best and were visited by his revenant. Though I'm supposed to be one of the main conspirators in this fiasco, I have a few questions myself. Very little was explained to me at the time. I assume they thought I was either too thick or in too much pain to understand. Perhaps they believed I would disagree with them. The only reason I went along with their scheme was because Harry was in such agony. Even if he recovered physically, he would be an emotional catastrophe. We were afraid that he'd try to injure himself or others – you weren't there at his bedside, you didn't hear all the things he said – that all the deaths would overwhelm him, leaving him but a brittle shell hidden away in the Janus Thickey ward along with Neville's parents. After all the Healers' diagnoses, we believed he was left a Squib, robbed of even the ability to enjoy his freedom in some measure, or to defend himself in the still dangerous environment. He had no future in the wizarding world, and none possible in the Muggle world. We – though when I say 'we,' I really mean 'they' – gave him some hope by providing him with a Muggle past and a hope for happiness. Hermione, Professor Flitwick, Harry's Healers, and a few Ministry officials concocted an intensive treatment consisting of a cornucopia of potions and spells as well as a cobbled together past mixing fact with fiction, sealing it with a Fidelius charm. How could it go wrong, we thought. Yes, we. Like a fool, I agreed with them. You might think what we did was cruel, especially keeping it from Fred and Ginny. Considering the information we had, which wasn't the best I can admit now, it was for the best. Fred was in no state to make any decision, especially regarding Harry. How he'd attacked Harry after Mum died. George was slightly more restrained, Fred was out for blood. With George's death in the last battle, who knew how Fred would react? Ginny, murmuring in a potion-soaked haze, was convinced Harry had died, that she had seen it. Hermione refuted the last bit, insisting that Ginny had been nowhere nearby in the last minutes before the defeat. Furthermore, my sister's condition was poor at the time. The Healers mended the injuries to her body without much problem, but she received regular doses of potions to heal some of the mental blows. Now it's obvious much of that treatment could have been avoided just by telling her Harry had survived. Regrettably, neither Hermione nor I, nor Remus for that matter, were in much of a state to refuse the advice of the medi-wizards and -witches. In her capacity as executrix of our Harry's unwritten living will, Hermione decided leaving Ginny in the dark was for the best. I didn't disagree. With what we thought was the rapid disintegration of Ginny and Harry's friendship a short while before the battle, we seemed to have enough cause to warrant that decision. Upon reflection, however, we misconstrued their situation. They cared for each other very much but were too proud to demonstrate that affection after our disastrous sixth year. The seventh year was equally vicious. By then Harry's heart had hardened enough that he rarely displayed any unintentional emotion whatsoever. Ginny had also become sterner over the years. To her jealous boyfriends, she insisted Harry was just a surrogate brother. Besides, she had enough troubles managing all of her schoolwork, Quidditch, and the occasional extra Seeker practice with the still-banned Harry. As he watched her manoeuvre through the sky, he would muse aloud that it was good someone Sirius loved was making use of the Firebolt. Unable to play the sport he loved, he concentrated more on DA meetings, Occlumency, and supplementary defence classes that amounted to preparatory Auror training. After one practice in late May, though, Harry came back to the common room early fit to murder any poor sod who crossed his path. Nobody dared. An hour later, Ginny returned in a slightly better mood, kicking a chair halfway across the room. Hermione inquired about what had gone wrong, but my sister only grunted and thundered up to the girls' dormitories, Firebolt in hand. Three years later, when she flooed us about finding Harry, we learned that they had argued about what Ginny had Seen. He trusted her too much to disbelieve her as she'd feared. He refused to be swayed, however, telling her Trelawney's prediction verbatim, something he had never told us. Death, he declared, was a price worth paying to finally destroy Voldemort, if necessary. She didn't relate what transpired after that exchange. Hermione still demanded a fresh set of examinations on Harry to determine whether his lack of magical ability was simply temporary before acceding in our name to the pressure of the Healers and Obliviators. Over the bed where he lay bandaged and heavily sedated, she accepted what we all felt was the will of fate. That night, the Obliviators, under the supervision of the Healers, altered Harry's memories of the previous seven years. She insisted on being the one to complete the patchwork of spells with the requisite charm, telling no one who the secret-keeper would be. Two years later, part-way through her studies as a Healer, Hermione inspected the methods, procedures, and results of the examinations. The tests were shoddily conducted and entirely inconclusive. This discovery crippled our relationship. Though we knew we had committed a grave injustice against our best friend, we hadn't the means to correct it: as neither of us was the secret-keeper, we didn't know where Harry was and could not tell others he was alive. Then Ginny found him. ~~~***~~~ —(Fred's POV)— It's about ten by the time we leave Ron and Hermione's. I decide to do Ginny's dirty work for her, though I know she'll hate me for it. Ange floos home while I cab it to their hotel. It's a pity, though, as I'm rather fond of the new Harry. When I find their hotel and ask the concierge about them at the desk, I discover Harry left a short while before I'd arrived. Once a bastard... I find him in the pub closest to the hotel ensconced alone within a cramped booth scowling at the four empty pint glasses before him. After a visit to the bar for a couple of lagers I sit opposite him. ''Lo, Harry.' He looks up at me with glassy eyes, sees the lagers and smiles. 'Cheers, Fred.' 'What brings you to this neck of our fair city?' I chide him, grinning. Ginny must have told him, and the bastard scarpered. Good riddance. At least he has the decency of appearing miserable, genuinely distraught. He leans forward, carefully pushing the empties aside. 'So, I assume you're one of them, too.' I feel my face hardening into a frown even before his words fully register. 'Yeah.' My free hand clenches into a fist. Just as I thought, the little tosser has no bottle. His jaw tenses to counter my own. 'Do you know who's responsible for my amnesia?' he demands, his brow furrowing deeply. Seems to think he's ready for a fight, despite the drink. Ginny receives an 'E' for effort; pity it's wasted on this git. 'Can't say.' I relax as he rolls his eyes and slumps back into his seat, downing half the pint I bought him. 'Makes two of you.' 'Why'd you leave, you little shit.' No sense being polite now. If he can be this much of a prat, I'd rather see him get as far from my family as possible. 'Who said anything about leave?' he replies venomously. 'I'm out for a bit of fresh air,' he continues, waving his free hand about the air blue with smoke. Then his eyes narrow, the haze before them vanishes and is replaced by an iron resolve. 'I don't give a rat's arse what you think of me, Fred. Unless you've a decent reason for me to bugger off out of your sister's life, keep your opinions to yourself.' He finishes the pint and slaps a fiver on the table. 'Thanks for the drink. Now sod off.' I don't, of course. The fiver is a painful reminder the thousand galleons he gave us to start the Wizarding Wheezes. I'm a second from pounding his face into the table. Instead, I tell him why he should stay away from Ginny. 'Reasons, eh?' I show my hand in front of my face. 'First, you drink too much. Second, you've no sense of humour. Third, you're a complete arse. Fourth, you've no appreciation for what you have.' I clench the hand into a fist in front of me. 'And fifth, if you go near her again, I'll thump you.' 'Shall we go now, or do you want to finish your pint?' When I don't answer, he continues. 'Look, what would you do if someone tells you the last twelve years of your life were a fabrication, a mix of falsified memories and lies, that the woman you loved for two years isn't whom you thought she was, that she's been lying to you all these years?' He pauses putting both of his hands flat on the table before him. 'I don't care she's a...' he breaks off, glancing round the room to make sure no one is listening, 'a you-know. I can live with her not telling me 'til now. Secrecy and all that. Fine. Then she offers to wipe the past two years all away, as if they meant nothing.' I can actually see a tear dribbling down his face. It's appalling. 'Wouldn't you want a drink after that?' Annoyingly, I can't help but agree with him. 'I'll let you off this time,' I reply, smiling faintly. 'Good. I rather like remaining intact.' He grins back. Maybe not such a bad bloke after all. I suggest instead a short walk to sober him up, to which he nods in agreement. I still pocket the fiver. We walk through the city saying very little to one another. At first, I think he's just being a sullen little git, until I notice his green-tinged pallor. I tell him a joke I'd recently heard from Dean Thomas and Harry begins to laugh then hurl, politely away from either of us, into an alleyway. Although he declares me an evil bastard, he smiles, tossing his ruined handkerchief into a nearby bin. Maybe he has a sense of humour after all, even though the joke wasn't quite that good. I ask him why he still thinks himself to be good enough for Ginny. He begins with some rigmarole about education, his parents' legacy, and decent job prospects before ending abruptly staring numbly into the distance. 'I don't know anymore,' he mumbles, shaking his head. 'Do you still want to marry her?' 'Yes, of course,' speaking to his shoes. 'No idea what I'd do without her.' 'What if she leaves you after tonight?' He rounds on me quick. Thinking he's aiming to hit me, I ready my arm for a punch, but he just looks anxious. 'Did she say something?' 'No,' I answer, relaxing. 'I went to the hotel and found out you'd buggered off.' He turns back to the street ahead of us and begins walking. 'I guess it'd depend whether it was for good or to collect herself.' We continue talking about Ginny and why he wants to be with her. It's a very uncomfortable conversation for both of us. He asks me general questions about his past that I can only answer vaguely, some of which aren't in my ken, while others would likely require too many explanations to make sense. At the end of a couple of hours in the din of some obscure all-night coffee bar, he manages to convince me. We leave at about half-past one for the hotel, shaking hands firmly, fraternally. It's a pity it's all over. ~~~***~~~ —(Harry's POV)— The hotel room's empty when I arrive. Only the barest trace of her scent is in the air. I ring the flat and her mobile but she's either not there or doesn't bother to answer. I ring the concierge, but she says Ginny never left. It takes all the patience I have not to throw the telephone across the room. With my suitcase packed, I reserve a ticket on the 6.15 train to Edinburgh using the hotel's guest access computer. It's a long walk to King's Cross with a suitcase, but I make it to the station before the sun rises. Once seated on the train, I fall into a fitful slumber. In my dream, all hell has broken loose. 'Bollocks,' I grumble. The ceiling's stones look a little dirtier these days. I wonder whether the cleaning staff even bothers any more. Blurry, too. I moan, numb arms flailing for my glasses. 'Bloody buggering bollocks,' gasping in agony as my back continues to spasm while my legs thrust out to counter what felt like a pair of monstrous charley horses. 'Sodding, damnable bollocks.' Hey, I've made it to my feet, a voice exclaims. 'Bugger off,' I mumble, still wavering between the horizontal and vertical. Sounds are slowly becoming noticeable, distinguishable. Loud, despite the ringing in my ears. Had I not been here, wherever here is, I would swear this was a gas explosion. Looks like a pub. Bomb? Something crackles just past my ear and I drop to the ground. Utter bloody agony; must have broken ribs. I curl reflexively into a foetal position against the pain which only makes it worse. Someone's walking towards me. I point something at him and he drops. What was that? I roll on to my back. I hear people slowly, carefully getting up around me. Chaos reigns outside, too. I can't see or hear anybody. Suddenly a pretty redheaded girl looks at me upside down. Her face is dirty and cut, but not too badly. 'Ginny,' I mutter, 'you look bloody terrible.' I try to laugh, but all that comes out is a hacking wheeze. 'What a charmer, Potter,' she retorts. 'Lay still.' She gently pushes me back on to the floor, checks my pulse, and searches for further injuries. I mumble that my ribs are broken, and ask about a couple of friends. 'Unconscious but otherwise just scrapes and bruises,' she answers, returning to face me. 'Tha's good,' I whisper before falling unconscious. I think it is, was early February. I'm beginning to remember. Edinburgh —(Ginny's POV)— Harry rings the flat and then my mobile at about 2.15. Though I don't pick either up, I know it's him. I've no desire to hear him drunkenly castigate me for this fiasco. Instead, I collect my things and prepare to leave this city for good. I've no idea where I'll go, but with a few weeks holiday saved for, well, I could probably get far away. Back to London, maybe to Bath, perhaps even to Glasgow. I don't know. I think of leaving a note, but I'm just too tired from the drink, the argument, and Apparating. Without bothering to change, I fall asleep on our, his, bed. Back into the past… We're in that corridor. Harry insisted we take the right hallway, and like a fool, I didn't argue. The portrait of Rab McGillivray winks at me before the bludger sends him reeling back to earth for the umpteenth time. Without that bloody map, the boy has no sense of direction. Although maybe it was the stunner Neville had practised on him. 'Potter, you prat!' I grumble. 'We should have taken the left staircase!' 'Git,' he replies with a smirk. 'Nutter.' Mutter and grin. 'Berk.' 'Tosser.' 'No need to get personal, now,' he answers. 'Harridan.' I can't suppress a laugh. 'I'm not old!' 'So you admit you're foul-tempered?' I slap his arm, hard. Which brings us to Mrs. Norris's attention. We hear Filch stumbling his way through the corridors hot on Mrs. Norris's trial. I cast a silencing charm on the pair of us as we hide in an alcove. God, it's so comfortable in his arms. When I pull away from him after Filch blunders up the left staircase, there's an odd look in his face that puzzles me. Still, how often do you get the object of your affection trapped in a secluded alcove? I do what demands to be done, hesitantly at first. But his lips are so warm, so soft. And, as they say, it'll all end in tears. I remember the vision of his body broken on the ground and break away, furious with myself for having given in to temptation and with him for not having the decency – or having too much – to respond. Cursing volumes in silence, I make my way back to the common room. The next day we apologise to one another. I can't tell him how much that kiss meant to me, how much and how long I wanted to do that. He playfully flirts with me, but it means nothing. He leaves smiling. My heart goes with him. My heart went with him.
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