we will only need each other (post-hbp ron/ginny)
we will only need each other
the special two - missy higgins
Fandom: Harry Potter (Post-HBP)
Summary: It starts when she first hears the screams outside her bedroom window.
Rating: PG
Characters: Ron/Ginny; Molly, Hagrid, Hermione
Word Count: 2,980
Warnings: incest, character death, minor language
Author’s Notes: for softlyforgotten because I like giving her things because she’s really awesome. I'm not expecting reviews on this; I think people have done this before. But enjoy anyway! ps, beware the overusage of paranthesis because they are cool and add dimension or whatever to the fic!
Please don’t come around flaming me for being disgusting and evil - I know I’m going to hell. I’ve already written enough incest fic for everyone to get into hell. If you don’t like, then look away and go along with your own business. Thank-you. (Flamers will be laughed at by me and everyone else).
+
It starts when she first hears the screams outside her bedroom window; petrified and death and reminiscent of times when everything was fire. (The first time around. They are told stories of the first time in dark rooms and even darker books - they all are whispered to, like the stories will harm those that over hear. It’s unsettling and glorious, because they’re living it and it’s unnaturally surreal.)
The floorboards creak and the walls are covered with dust and old family photos; she shivers as the night air rushes in from open windows and open doors. His room is basked in a grey moon-lit glow, the orange dulled and less blinding at night.
She whispers his name in the dark, kneeling by his bed, her fingers touching his arm lightly. He grunts and moves over, lifting the covers for her to climb under. She presses into his back, burying her face in his shoulder and wrapping her arms around his waist. The rhythm of his breathing against her chest, the feel of his fingers on hers, is enough to calm her.
The screams are still heard beyond the window.
She starts sleeping in his bed every night - the screams; they change. They move closer, they move back. (She wonders if they’re safe and he says they are with a look of restlessness beneath the fine dust of freckles, but she can’t find it in herself to believe him.)
He starts holding her in his arms by the end of the week, pulling the covers over her head so she can cover her ears when the lights flash and everything is heard from miles away. (He sees them all, watches it through his window and he can’t find it in himself to be afraid. She sleeps through it, but sometimes he wonders if she’s awake the entire time.)
She holds onto him, gripping her fingers into his shoulders and pressing her face into his neck. It’s all familiar; the soft skin, the smell of birch wood in his hair and dirt on his skin. She falls into it like a security blanket until she sits by him during the day, reading books with their shoulders bumping and eating lunch in his room, sitting cross-legged on his bed.
They never look each other in the eye until she starts crying one night and he holds her face in his hands. She moves first, crashing their lips together in desperate agony and need, her hands curling into his shirt and pulling herself closer. He doesn’t move, the feel of his sister’s lips on his and how delicate she was in his arms causing him to still. They didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just held on as the lights flashed behind them and the faint, dulled screams rolled across the hills.
He pulled away first; she pushed into him, hiding her face in his chest and he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her flush against him. They lay with their eyes wide open, their breath erratic and short, hearts beating in time.
When their mother wakes them early in the morning, they untangle themselves from the bed sheets and stare at each other before it all settled in and they faced their separate ways.
The house is quiet, crooked and folding in on itself; you can hear everything. The clock ticks in the distance and she sits by the fireplace, poking at the ashes with her wand. Her mother is washing dishes, hair disheveled and body quivering; her eyes dart across the windows and she wonders how long it is until they’re found. He sits on the chair, leafing through a notebook.
The sister glances at the grandfather clock; the hands are all set to mortal peril and she feels it rise in her throat. She glances to her brother; he looks up for only a second before looking down again.
Their mother wanders into the living room and leans against the frame; “You’re going back to school in the fall,” she mutters before walking away, running a hand through her hair. “It’s safest.”
The siblings look to each other before sighing.
+
“Come on, Ginny.”
The make-shift blinds are drawn and morning light spreads across her room, her bed, her floor, her things. (She’s stopped sleeping in his bed. She still hears the screams, she’s still afraid, but she doesn’t fit - she’s outgrown the childish need; it worked when she was younger and the ghoul in the attic kept her up at night and her brother calmed her with stories about famous witches and wizards falling in love in lands far away.)
“Get up, Ginny dear.”
Late fall. Cold weather spills in from downstairs where the walls crumble and creak against the wind. Her mother pushes fallen leaves off her windowsill. (He’s stopped wrapping his fingers in hers during the day. They drift apart like seasons and soon they sit on opposite sides of the room. She eats her lunch in the small den while he wanders up to his room and doesn’t come out for hours.)
“Oh, you’re not even packed! You have to be at the train station in an hour!”
She groans and pushes herself from the bed. (It’s all wrong.)
+
Their mother is gone with two quick kisses and one last good-bye, whisked away by a dark wizard in a dark cloak and dark eyes to join the others. She tells them don’t worry, I love you, but they stand close to each other, just like when they were young and thunderstorms were scarier than war.
The platform is empty and sparse; more guards than children. Everyone’s gone, running as far as they could take themselves; as far as they could get until someone found them. They heard the stories, but they never believed them - they didn’t want to think that it had come this fast.
“There’s no one,” Ron whispers. He looks at the train; still red and still bright and running and just the same as it was the first day it started - magic. “Everybody’s gone.”
Ginny doesn’t say a word, just follows Ron towards the train, dragging their trunks behind them.
The ride is long and tiresome; they sit on opposite sides of each other, accompanied by Hermione, Luna and Neville. Ginny stares out the window and Ron’s staring at his feet; Hermione tries to make light conversation, but she’s shut down by the silence and she just stops trying once the trolley comes around.
No one asks where Harry is - they all know, anyway.
The Great Hall remains the same, the corridors still gleam; it’s all familiar and safe, but somehow the gates aren’t high enough and the stone isn’t strong enough. Ginny spends her days staring at the ceiling; she never goes to class because there is no point.
Lists of rules are posted everywhere - no contact with anyone outside the school, no going on the grounds, no sports, no hexing; it goes on and on until it blurs in their eyes. It’s the safest place to be and Ginny wonder if that justifies for the fact that the year before, they were still attacked.
The blood stains never do leave the cobblestone and marble stairways.
Ron reads books and Hermione stays quiet. Ginny spends her time counting things because it passes the time and no one talks. The first week comes and goes and soon, doors are chained close and the dormitories are filling with supplies and books.
No one goes to the dungeons.
+
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”
“Ginny,” Ron sighs, sounding tired and deflated. He never looks up from his book.
“The screams, Ron. I can still hear them.” Ginny shifts her weight. “I hear Mum and Dad and Percy and Bill -”
Ron throws down his book and stands up, looming over Ginny. “Fine. Just -” he raises his hands, “- stop talking about it, okay? Just stop it. I can’t handle it.”
Ginny nods, looking at her hands.
Ron wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her close, pressing his face into her hair. “Don’t think about it,” he whispers. “Just don’t.”
Ginny’s finding it hard not to.
+
For the rest of their days in the castle, they spend all of it together. They find empty corridors to sit in and hold hands, fingers loose around the other. No one bothers them because no one wants to look in anyone’s eyes, just in case it’s the last thing they ever do.
Ron tells stories about when Ginny was little and she laughs, the sound spilling across the halls and bouncing back at them; almost mocking them. She rests on his shoulder and the stories run into one another; Ron loses tracks and repeats memories, but Ginny doesn’t mind.
Hargrid and the few seventh year boys board up the windows and all light is cut out by winter. Ginny thinks the boards will come down by spring and Ron doesn’t find it necessary to tell her that they’re up for good.
They don’t sleep in the dorms - sometimes, they’ll drag their blankets and pillows down to the staircase and sleep by the broom cupboards. Once, they went to the vanishing room - it looked like their living room back home and it smelled like honeysuckles in the summer.
They never stray too far from each other, connected by their fingers and no one dares to ask.
+
“We’re leaving,” Hermione says one morning. She looks relieved.
“Where are we going?” Ginny asks, sitting up in her chair. Ron reaches out to her, hand resting on her back where no one can see.
Hermione dabs at her eyes with the tips of her fingers. “Wherever they can send us.”
+
They are put on a ship to Denmark with three other students from Ravenclaw; a refugee center in the underground offered up five more places for anyone they can send. Hermione is on a train to Ireland and she cries as they are divided in Hogsmeade.
“Don’t cry, Hermione,” Ginny whispers. She brushes away a strand of hair from Hermione’s eyes. “We’ll see each other soon.”
Hermione’s lips quiver and she nods; she looks at Ron and sobs loudly, throwing herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She nuzzles her face against Ron’s cheek and Ron hesitantly holds her.
Ginny looks away.
They wave as Hagrid leads them away from her, the Ravenclaws leading the group - they hold hands, just like them, marching confidently towards their waiting train.
“Will we see her again, Hargid?” Ginny asks as they climb onto the train and Hagrid holds her tiny hand as she stops on the steps.
“Don’t ya worry right now,” Hagrid says quickly. “Jus’ get where y’need to be.”
Ginny doesn’t like the silence and the way the sky looks like blood is dripping into the creases. Her shoulders bump against Ron’s, shoved into a tiny compartment with other desperate people with desperate looks of hope and salvation on their faces.
+
Copenhagen is glorious and massive; Ginny walks the streets when the refugee leaders let her out into the Muggle world. Pavilions and stands, just like in Diagon Alley, litter the sidewalks and the sellers press things into her hands, asking her to buy, buy, buy. She refuses kindly, smiling as bright as she can - she knows her dad would’ve loved this place.
She doesn’t feel any safer in this foreign country - she still reads the news, she still hears the whispers when she walks through the underground of the wizarding world. It’s small and contained and they seem to know that she was one of the last. They look at her with sad eyes and express the fondest empathy through shushing each other when she walks by.
Sometimes, she still hears the screams at night.
She and Ron bunk in the same bed when they start running out of space - wizards and witches keep sneaking over, huddling along in tight groups, with small children and bags of provisions and faded photographs. One of the witches in the same hostel as them told them stories of another time, when the Muggles ran too. They swarmed the city, just like they were now and that history always seemed to repeat itself.
“They killed millions,” the witch whispers, her blue eyes narrowed in the dark. “With gases and these - these things,” - she waves her hands around to try to better explain it - “that shot out pieces of lead and killed people instantly.”
Ron sneers. “You’re off your rocker.”
The witch frowns, pushing her hair out of her face. “It’s all true.”
Ron shook his head and flipped over in his bunk. Ginny looks at the woman; she winks before turning over in her own bed.
“Dad would’ve loved that story,” Ginny whispers once the lights shut out and she pushes herself close to Ron’s back, draping her arm around his chest - she feels his soft heartbeat beneath her fingers.
“Shut up, Ginny.”
Ginny hides her face between Ron’s shoulder blades and listens to the sounds of the tenants breathing.
+
They stop hearing news the third week they are there.
Ron and Ginny dig through the trash cans, searching for discarded newspapers, but there is nothing left. They know that something horrible has happened - they wouldn’t stop printing off news just because.
They wander among the Muggles for hours; they should’ve been back before nightfall, but they stay out at the bars and drink water in the dark corners. Ron plays with the rings of water on the table and Ginny holds his hand beneath the cover of the table.
“You’ll always stay with me, right?” Ginny mutters in his ear.
Ron nods slowly, turning his head towards Ginny. Their noses bump and he kisses her gently on the lips. He looks back swiftly to run his fingers through the water again; Ginny sighs, resting her head on Ron’s shoulder. Lights flash outside the window, but she’s not scared, like she expected.
+
The headline reads Order of the Phoenix taken in attack; Death-eaters take survivors captive and Ginny bursts into tears. Ron nearly tears the pages in half to read the list of the dead and he scans through the names, trying hard to swallow around the lump in his throat.
Ron reads off the names in order and Ginny whimpers from behind her fists. He stops when he reads gets to Weasleys; he pauses before standing up and throwing his dinner plate against the wall, causing everyone in the hall to look around.
“Ron!” Ginny screams.
“It’s not fucking fair, Ginny!” The leaders are rushing towards him. “Mum, Dad and Percy are dead! Fred and George and Bill and Charlie - God.” Ron leans against the table; he slams his fists and Ginny jumps. “Everyone is gone.”
“Ron.” Ginny stands up, reaching out.
“Don’t,” he hisses. “Leave me alone.”
Ginny watches him storm out of the hall before falling back in her seat - a picture of Order flashes up at her and her mom waves. She can’t cry.
+
Ginny finds Ron by the ocean, sitting on a fishing pier. She sits down beside him, handing him a sweater. He shrugs it on and stares blankly at the sinking sun.
“Why us?” Ron murmurs; he takes Ginny’s hands in his. He looks at her. “Why we were left behind?”
Ginny bites her lip, shaking her head. The tears spill across her cheeks. “I - I don’t know.”
+
The war ends months later and Ginny, in spite of everything, sleeps with Ron. He cradles her in his arms and whispers in her ear when she hears the screams in her sleep.
The headline reads He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Harry Potter dead and Ron throws the paper down before storming out of the hall. Ginny reads the entire newspaper - a list of the others dead, thousands left unnamed; the amount of ones left over, the ones sent to other countries and the final minutes of the battle. They didn’t speak of the hostage Order members and Ginny assumed there was no point, really.
The pictures of the remains of Diagon Alley are devastating and streets strewn with bodies and bits of people’s lives; they took a picture of Hogsmeade and in the background, she could faintly make out Hogwarts.
It was standing, just as the first day she saw it.
Hermione writes them, asking them to come to Ireland. Ginny wonders if she’s heard the news yet or if she’s strong enough not to talk about it. She writes back saying they would love to as soon as everything is sorted out and it’s safe to travel. She sends her best wishes to the others and Ginny wonders how many of them really were there.
“We’re okay, Ron,” Ginny says one day while they pack up their meager belongings. They are being sent to Ireland to stay with Hermione - she got a job as a professor at a local wizarding school, managed to build herself a life while Ginny was still wearing the same clothes as she had been at the beginning of the war.
Ron sighs. “I know.” He drops his clothes into his bag. “We’re never going to see them again.”
Ginny swallows the tears and clears her throat. “I know.”
“Do you think it’ll ever be normal again?” Ron asks, sitting down on one of the bunks.
Ginny shakes her head; no. Never.
+
When they board the train, Ginny thinks she sees a bob of red hair in the crowd and wants to call out, but they disappear. Ron pulls her onto the train, tightening his fingers into hers and drags her into an empty compartment. He pulls her close to his side and drapes her arms around her waist, resting his chin on the top of her head.
She still hears the screams from time to time and sees the flashing lights when she closes her eyes for too long.
the special two - missy higgins
Fandom: Harry Potter (Post-HBP)
Summary: It starts when she first hears the screams outside her bedroom window.
Rating: PG
Characters: Ron/Ginny; Molly, Hagrid, Hermione
Word Count: 2,980
Warnings: incest, character death, minor language
Author’s Notes: for softlyforgotten because I like giving her things because she’s really awesome. I'm not expecting reviews on this; I think people have done this before. But enjoy anyway! ps, beware the overusage of paranthesis because they are cool and add dimension or whatever to the fic!
Please don’t come around flaming me for being disgusting and evil - I know I’m going to hell. I’ve already written enough incest fic for everyone to get into hell. If you don’t like, then look away and go along with your own business. Thank-you. (Flamers will be laughed at by me and everyone else).
+
It starts when she first hears the screams outside her bedroom window; petrified and death and reminiscent of times when everything was fire. (The first time around. They are told stories of the first time in dark rooms and even darker books - they all are whispered to, like the stories will harm those that over hear. It’s unsettling and glorious, because they’re living it and it’s unnaturally surreal.)
The floorboards creak and the walls are covered with dust and old family photos; she shivers as the night air rushes in from open windows and open doors. His room is basked in a grey moon-lit glow, the orange dulled and less blinding at night.
She whispers his name in the dark, kneeling by his bed, her fingers touching his arm lightly. He grunts and moves over, lifting the covers for her to climb under. She presses into his back, burying her face in his shoulder and wrapping her arms around his waist. The rhythm of his breathing against her chest, the feel of his fingers on hers, is enough to calm her.
The screams are still heard beyond the window.
She starts sleeping in his bed every night - the screams; they change. They move closer, they move back. (She wonders if they’re safe and he says they are with a look of restlessness beneath the fine dust of freckles, but she can’t find it in herself to believe him.)
He starts holding her in his arms by the end of the week, pulling the covers over her head so she can cover her ears when the lights flash and everything is heard from miles away. (He sees them all, watches it through his window and he can’t find it in himself to be afraid. She sleeps through it, but sometimes he wonders if she’s awake the entire time.)
She holds onto him, gripping her fingers into his shoulders and pressing her face into his neck. It’s all familiar; the soft skin, the smell of birch wood in his hair and dirt on his skin. She falls into it like a security blanket until she sits by him during the day, reading books with their shoulders bumping and eating lunch in his room, sitting cross-legged on his bed.
They never look each other in the eye until she starts crying one night and he holds her face in his hands. She moves first, crashing their lips together in desperate agony and need, her hands curling into his shirt and pulling herself closer. He doesn’t move, the feel of his sister’s lips on his and how delicate she was in his arms causing him to still. They didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just held on as the lights flashed behind them and the faint, dulled screams rolled across the hills.
He pulled away first; she pushed into him, hiding her face in his chest and he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her flush against him. They lay with their eyes wide open, their breath erratic and short, hearts beating in time.
When their mother wakes them early in the morning, they untangle themselves from the bed sheets and stare at each other before it all settled in and they faced their separate ways.
The house is quiet, crooked and folding in on itself; you can hear everything. The clock ticks in the distance and she sits by the fireplace, poking at the ashes with her wand. Her mother is washing dishes, hair disheveled and body quivering; her eyes dart across the windows and she wonders how long it is until they’re found. He sits on the chair, leafing through a notebook.
The sister glances at the grandfather clock; the hands are all set to mortal peril and she feels it rise in her throat. She glances to her brother; he looks up for only a second before looking down again.
Their mother wanders into the living room and leans against the frame; “You’re going back to school in the fall,” she mutters before walking away, running a hand through her hair. “It’s safest.”
The siblings look to each other before sighing.
+
“Come on, Ginny.”
The make-shift blinds are drawn and morning light spreads across her room, her bed, her floor, her things. (She’s stopped sleeping in his bed. She still hears the screams, she’s still afraid, but she doesn’t fit - she’s outgrown the childish need; it worked when she was younger and the ghoul in the attic kept her up at night and her brother calmed her with stories about famous witches and wizards falling in love in lands far away.)
“Get up, Ginny dear.”
Late fall. Cold weather spills in from downstairs where the walls crumble and creak against the wind. Her mother pushes fallen leaves off her windowsill. (He’s stopped wrapping his fingers in hers during the day. They drift apart like seasons and soon they sit on opposite sides of the room. She eats her lunch in the small den while he wanders up to his room and doesn’t come out for hours.)
“Oh, you’re not even packed! You have to be at the train station in an hour!”
She groans and pushes herself from the bed. (It’s all wrong.)
+
Their mother is gone with two quick kisses and one last good-bye, whisked away by a dark wizard in a dark cloak and dark eyes to join the others. She tells them don’t worry, I love you, but they stand close to each other, just like when they were young and thunderstorms were scarier than war.
The platform is empty and sparse; more guards than children. Everyone’s gone, running as far as they could take themselves; as far as they could get until someone found them. They heard the stories, but they never believed them - they didn’t want to think that it had come this fast.
“There’s no one,” Ron whispers. He looks at the train; still red and still bright and running and just the same as it was the first day it started - magic. “Everybody’s gone.”
Ginny doesn’t say a word, just follows Ron towards the train, dragging their trunks behind them.
The ride is long and tiresome; they sit on opposite sides of each other, accompanied by Hermione, Luna and Neville. Ginny stares out the window and Ron’s staring at his feet; Hermione tries to make light conversation, but she’s shut down by the silence and she just stops trying once the trolley comes around.
No one asks where Harry is - they all know, anyway.
The Great Hall remains the same, the corridors still gleam; it’s all familiar and safe, but somehow the gates aren’t high enough and the stone isn’t strong enough. Ginny spends her days staring at the ceiling; she never goes to class because there is no point.
Lists of rules are posted everywhere - no contact with anyone outside the school, no going on the grounds, no sports, no hexing; it goes on and on until it blurs in their eyes. It’s the safest place to be and Ginny wonder if that justifies for the fact that the year before, they were still attacked.
The blood stains never do leave the cobblestone and marble stairways.
Ron reads books and Hermione stays quiet. Ginny spends her time counting things because it passes the time and no one talks. The first week comes and goes and soon, doors are chained close and the dormitories are filling with supplies and books.
No one goes to the dungeons.
+
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”
“Ginny,” Ron sighs, sounding tired and deflated. He never looks up from his book.
“The screams, Ron. I can still hear them.” Ginny shifts her weight. “I hear Mum and Dad and Percy and Bill -”
Ron throws down his book and stands up, looming over Ginny. “Fine. Just -” he raises his hands, “- stop talking about it, okay? Just stop it. I can’t handle it.”
Ginny nods, looking at her hands.
Ron wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her close, pressing his face into her hair. “Don’t think about it,” he whispers. “Just don’t.”
Ginny’s finding it hard not to.
+
For the rest of their days in the castle, they spend all of it together. They find empty corridors to sit in and hold hands, fingers loose around the other. No one bothers them because no one wants to look in anyone’s eyes, just in case it’s the last thing they ever do.
Ron tells stories about when Ginny was little and she laughs, the sound spilling across the halls and bouncing back at them; almost mocking them. She rests on his shoulder and the stories run into one another; Ron loses tracks and repeats memories, but Ginny doesn’t mind.
Hargrid and the few seventh year boys board up the windows and all light is cut out by winter. Ginny thinks the boards will come down by spring and Ron doesn’t find it necessary to tell her that they’re up for good.
They don’t sleep in the dorms - sometimes, they’ll drag their blankets and pillows down to the staircase and sleep by the broom cupboards. Once, they went to the vanishing room - it looked like their living room back home and it smelled like honeysuckles in the summer.
They never stray too far from each other, connected by their fingers and no one dares to ask.
+
“We’re leaving,” Hermione says one morning. She looks relieved.
“Where are we going?” Ginny asks, sitting up in her chair. Ron reaches out to her, hand resting on her back where no one can see.
Hermione dabs at her eyes with the tips of her fingers. “Wherever they can send us.”
+
They are put on a ship to Denmark with three other students from Ravenclaw; a refugee center in the underground offered up five more places for anyone they can send. Hermione is on a train to Ireland and she cries as they are divided in Hogsmeade.
“Don’t cry, Hermione,” Ginny whispers. She brushes away a strand of hair from Hermione’s eyes. “We’ll see each other soon.”
Hermione’s lips quiver and she nods; she looks at Ron and sobs loudly, throwing herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She nuzzles her face against Ron’s cheek and Ron hesitantly holds her.
Ginny looks away.
They wave as Hagrid leads them away from her, the Ravenclaws leading the group - they hold hands, just like them, marching confidently towards their waiting train.
“Will we see her again, Hargid?” Ginny asks as they climb onto the train and Hagrid holds her tiny hand as she stops on the steps.
“Don’t ya worry right now,” Hagrid says quickly. “Jus’ get where y’need to be.”
Ginny doesn’t like the silence and the way the sky looks like blood is dripping into the creases. Her shoulders bump against Ron’s, shoved into a tiny compartment with other desperate people with desperate looks of hope and salvation on their faces.
+
Copenhagen is glorious and massive; Ginny walks the streets when the refugee leaders let her out into the Muggle world. Pavilions and stands, just like in Diagon Alley, litter the sidewalks and the sellers press things into her hands, asking her to buy, buy, buy. She refuses kindly, smiling as bright as she can - she knows her dad would’ve loved this place.
She doesn’t feel any safer in this foreign country - she still reads the news, she still hears the whispers when she walks through the underground of the wizarding world. It’s small and contained and they seem to know that she was one of the last. They look at her with sad eyes and express the fondest empathy through shushing each other when she walks by.
Sometimes, she still hears the screams at night.
She and Ron bunk in the same bed when they start running out of space - wizards and witches keep sneaking over, huddling along in tight groups, with small children and bags of provisions and faded photographs. One of the witches in the same hostel as them told them stories of another time, when the Muggles ran too. They swarmed the city, just like they were now and that history always seemed to repeat itself.
“They killed millions,” the witch whispers, her blue eyes narrowed in the dark. “With gases and these - these things,” - she waves her hands around to try to better explain it - “that shot out pieces of lead and killed people instantly.”
Ron sneers. “You’re off your rocker.”
The witch frowns, pushing her hair out of her face. “It’s all true.”
Ron shook his head and flipped over in his bunk. Ginny looks at the woman; she winks before turning over in her own bed.
“Dad would’ve loved that story,” Ginny whispers once the lights shut out and she pushes herself close to Ron’s back, draping her arm around his chest - she feels his soft heartbeat beneath her fingers.
“Shut up, Ginny.”
Ginny hides her face between Ron’s shoulder blades and listens to the sounds of the tenants breathing.
+
They stop hearing news the third week they are there.
Ron and Ginny dig through the trash cans, searching for discarded newspapers, but there is nothing left. They know that something horrible has happened - they wouldn’t stop printing off news just because.
They wander among the Muggles for hours; they should’ve been back before nightfall, but they stay out at the bars and drink water in the dark corners. Ron plays with the rings of water on the table and Ginny holds his hand beneath the cover of the table.
“You’ll always stay with me, right?” Ginny mutters in his ear.
Ron nods slowly, turning his head towards Ginny. Their noses bump and he kisses her gently on the lips. He looks back swiftly to run his fingers through the water again; Ginny sighs, resting her head on Ron’s shoulder. Lights flash outside the window, but she’s not scared, like she expected.
+
The headline reads Order of the Phoenix taken in attack; Death-eaters take survivors captive and Ginny bursts into tears. Ron nearly tears the pages in half to read the list of the dead and he scans through the names, trying hard to swallow around the lump in his throat.
Ron reads off the names in order and Ginny whimpers from behind her fists. He stops when he reads gets to Weasleys; he pauses before standing up and throwing his dinner plate against the wall, causing everyone in the hall to look around.
“Ron!” Ginny screams.
“It’s not fucking fair, Ginny!” The leaders are rushing towards him. “Mum, Dad and Percy are dead! Fred and George and Bill and Charlie - God.” Ron leans against the table; he slams his fists and Ginny jumps. “Everyone is gone.”
“Ron.” Ginny stands up, reaching out.
“Don’t,” he hisses. “Leave me alone.”
Ginny watches him storm out of the hall before falling back in her seat - a picture of Order flashes up at her and her mom waves. She can’t cry.
+
Ginny finds Ron by the ocean, sitting on a fishing pier. She sits down beside him, handing him a sweater. He shrugs it on and stares blankly at the sinking sun.
“Why us?” Ron murmurs; he takes Ginny’s hands in his. He looks at her. “Why we were left behind?”
Ginny bites her lip, shaking her head. The tears spill across her cheeks. “I - I don’t know.”
+
The war ends months later and Ginny, in spite of everything, sleeps with Ron. He cradles her in his arms and whispers in her ear when she hears the screams in her sleep.
The headline reads He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Harry Potter dead and Ron throws the paper down before storming out of the hall. Ginny reads the entire newspaper - a list of the others dead, thousands left unnamed; the amount of ones left over, the ones sent to other countries and the final minutes of the battle. They didn’t speak of the hostage Order members and Ginny assumed there was no point, really.
The pictures of the remains of Diagon Alley are devastating and streets strewn with bodies and bits of people’s lives; they took a picture of Hogsmeade and in the background, she could faintly make out Hogwarts.
It was standing, just as the first day she saw it.
Hermione writes them, asking them to come to Ireland. Ginny wonders if she’s heard the news yet or if she’s strong enough not to talk about it. She writes back saying they would love to as soon as everything is sorted out and it’s safe to travel. She sends her best wishes to the others and Ginny wonders how many of them really were there.
“We’re okay, Ron,” Ginny says one day while they pack up their meager belongings. They are being sent to Ireland to stay with Hermione - she got a job as a professor at a local wizarding school, managed to build herself a life while Ginny was still wearing the same clothes as she had been at the beginning of the war.
Ron sighs. “I know.” He drops his clothes into his bag. “We’re never going to see them again.”
Ginny swallows the tears and clears her throat. “I know.”
“Do you think it’ll ever be normal again?” Ron asks, sitting down on one of the bunks.
Ginny shakes her head; no. Never.
+
When they board the train, Ginny thinks she sees a bob of red hair in the crowd and wants to call out, but they disappear. Ron pulls her onto the train, tightening his fingers into hers and drags her into an empty compartment. He pulls her close to his side and drapes her arms around her waist, resting his chin on the top of her head.
She still hears the screams from time to time and sees the flashing lights when she closes her eyes for too long.