Where did you go, Time?

[adaliseranis]

Updates are going to slow down a bit after this, because while I calculated that I should have enough to last until Christmas... somehow, I can't count. Why Christmas? Because the month before that is exams, when I might have more than an hour at a time to sit down and write, which means I'll still have a grace period in between finishing and posting in which to edit and get the damn things beta'd.

There will still be frequent updates on FF.net, but that's because that account is about 5 chapters behind. However, if you're craving the excitement of new releases or something...

Title: Tangled Webs
Chapter: Eleven (In which there is healing)
Series: Post-Epilogue
Chapter Length: 8050 words
Betas: Jenn, who puts up with ridiculously long chapters like this.

Chapter Eleven

In which there is healing

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Ginny woke early and, as she always did, spent a moment lying with her eyes closed, enjoying a private moment of peace. Then, for a brief, horrible moment the absolute silence scared her, and she had half-way rolled over to make sure nothing had happened to Harry before she realized that of course she wouldn't hear his breathing.

She let her eyes fall closed again, although she could still see her surroundings in her mind. The whitewashed walls and polished wood floor were more in keeping with a cottage by the sea than a castle. The white armchairs, with their pattern of light blue sprays of heather, lacked any of the grandeur that was so typical of Hogwarts. The curtains were drawn back, allowing the thin sunlight of the winter dawn in to add a golden glow to the room. Everything whispered of tranquility and rest, so perhaps it should be no surprise she had slept as well as she had.

Her mind's eye caught on one of the chairs next to the small fireplace. Less than a week ago she had woken in this very bed, only to find him asleep in that very chair. It had been at once familiar and strange: familiar, thinking back to all the times she had awoken with him nearby; strange, to feel the gulf that had opened between them over the years. They had not thought themselves innocent at the time, had felt jaded far beyond their years, but still they had curled together like children, seeking the comfort of having someone nearby. Perhaps it had not been their marriages that had kept them apart that night last week; perhaps it had been remembrance of the weight of the sins that had torn that innocence from them.

There was no time for those sorts of reflections right now: a pounding on her door demanded her immediate attention. There was only one person it could be, to make such a racket at this hour of the morning. "Enter," she called, and smiled as her son all but fell through the door when it obligingly swung open.

He was a bit taller now, and his voice just a hair deeper as he tottered on the cliff's edge before puberty, but the way he said "Mum" and scrambled onto the bed next to her was just the same as it had always been. His pale-copper hair stuck up in a static halo, just as it had when he was two and running about in those ugly orange pyjamas that Ron had given him. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and hugged her, just as he always had, and she returned the embrace. "Mummy," he whispered, although she didn't think he'd meant to say it out loud. "I'm sorry, I had detention last night, or I would have come to see you sooner."

She patted his head. His fine hair refused to lie flat, and fluffed up again as soon as her hand left it. "It's alright, darling. Pomona - Professor Sprout - helped me settle in just fine. And it's not like I've never been here before," she added, the twinkle in her eye daring him to call her old and forgetful. He couldn't think of anything to say to that, and scowled, looking for a moment very much like his father. "It should be time for breakfast soon," she said hastily, suddenly feeling a desperate urge to avoid that scowl, or anything else that reminded her of his father. "Give me a few minutes to get ready, and we'll go, alright?"

Jimmy looked at her searchingly. "Are you sure you're alright, Mum?"

"Of course," she promised, making a shooing motion. "Don't worry so much: you'll get old before your time. Now get, I need to shower."

-----

Growing up, he'd heard all sorts of stories about Hogwarts. Some of them, mostly the ones about the War, were quite epic, though rarely told. But for the most part, they were off-hand comments of the 'when you get there' variety. The ones his father and uncles told painted an idyllic picture of a teenage boy's paradise - unique magics, secret legends, and all sorts of scrapes that fell just on the far side of 'against the rules'. The ones his mother told were far less pretty, and tended to focus on the cold, the ugly decor, and the heavy food. But then, Fleur had always been a bit biased against Hogwarts.

For the most part, Fabian agreed with his father: Hogwarts was fabulous, and there were all sorts of fun things a boy could get up to, as long as he kept his wits about him when he decided to bend the rules. There were, however, a couple of things which he could very happily do without. One of those was Quidditch practices at five in the morning, just because the team captain thought heads were clearer early in the morning. Another was porridge.

"But it's extremely good for you," Rosie was saying. The Gryffindor table was empty - and little wonder, at this time of the morning - so she'd come to sit with him and Griflet.

"Gloop," Fabian said morosely, staring down at the bowl of beige stuff that his little cousin had ladled out for him. He'd come in from practice hoping for sausages that swam in grease and bacon that was entirely crunchy bits, and instead he got porridge. He smacked it experimentally with the back of his spoon. It made a wet sort of sucking noise that was just so typically porridge.

"You're an athlete," Rosie told him severely. "You have to mind your diet and eat nutritious foods." It sounded, Fabian thought, like someone had unwisely left a pamphlet on healthy eating where Rosie could find it, and she'd sat down and memorized it as though there was going to be a test.

On his other side, Griflet dumped a large helping of pumpkin juice into his own porridge. "Plop," he said cheerfully. He seemed wide awake, which suggested to Fabian that he'd once again lost track of the time; the stupid blighter probably thought it was lunch time.

"That's disgusting," Rosie said, wrinkling her nose. It definitely was, Fabian thought, but it still looked more appealing than his portion. At least Griflet's had some colour to it.

"Food groups," the boy answered, and added a sausage to the mix without bothering to cut it up. "It's all the same inside, anyway." He reached for the milk, and Fabian began to hope this was another one of Griflet's strange jokes. If the other boy actually ate that, Fabian was going to have trouble keeping his own breakfast down.

"The pumpkin juice will curdle the milk." The level voice froze Griflet's hand an inch from the jug. Fabian twisted in his seat to see James approaching the table, Aunt Ginny a half step behind. "Use cheese," James added. If Fabian had been the one to say that, Griflet would have protested, and by the time they'd reached a compromise that involved mashed cheese and butter, the porridge would have been cold - that sort of thing had happened often enough that Fabian had no doubt of it. But, amazingly, Griflet's hand went unerringly to the cheese plate, and he dropped four chunks of the stuff into his bowl without a word.

Fabian decided to avoid the headache that would surely come of trying to puzzle out what had just happened, and turned to his aunt instead. "Morning, Aunt Ginny. Or... would it be Madam Potter, now?" He was happy to have his aunt here, and he knew his mother was ecstatic about it - she'd been so excited that she'd jumped back and forth between languages, sometimes in the middle of sentences, in the owl she had sent him last night - but addressing her as a teacher was going to take some getting used-to.

"It's Healer Weasley, actually," his aunt said, sliding into the place across from him. James, looking a bit like he never wanted to let her out of his sight again, sat next to her - but then, he'd always been such a mama's boy, had James. Not that Fabian would dream of saying it to his face. "'Madam' is for matrons. Is that all you're going to eat?" she added, eyeing his half-eaten porridge.

Fabian shot a baleful look at Rosie, who pretended not to notice. "Apparently I need to eat nutritious foods," he told her.

Aunt Ginny rolled her eyes, something Fabian had never seen her do before. It made her look very like his father. "You're Bill's son. You don't need nutritious food, you just need lots," she told him. With the efficiency that came from raising a whole brood of children, she filled a plate with cheese, sausages and fruit. "And put some sugar on that cereal, it makes me sick to look at it."

Grinning a little, Fabian did as he was told. He liked this Aunt Ginny a lot better than the tired woman with the sad eyes that had been puttering around the kitchen whenever he visited the Burrow. He was also starting to understand why his mother had been so happy that Aunt Ginny had come to Hogwarts, despite her personal dislike of the school.

"That's not good for him, Aunt Ginny," Rosie said severely, looking at their aunt with eyes filled with reproach. James shot her a nasty look, and she flinched a little, but didn't back down. "A healthy diet consists of..."

"Gloop!" Griflet declared, dropping an apple into his porridge, splattering it across the table. Fabian saw his aunt's eyes widen a little. He also noticed that the porridge had splashed on Griflet's robes, and realized with a sinking feeling that now he'd have to convince the other boy to change them before class. "I needed another serving of fruits or vegetables," he added, addressing himself to Aunt Ginny and speaking as though this was the most reasonable thing in the world.

Rather than seeming alarmed or put-out, Aunt Ginny actually looked interested. "Why did you need to put it in the porridge, though?" Well, Fabian allowed, Aunt Ginny's used to dealing with nut jobs. Most of the Weasley family seemed to fit that description, after all.

"This way I only get one dish dirty."

"You freak!" Rosie cried. "You got them all dirty. You splashed porridge everywhere!"

Aunt Ginny looked at her, and Fabian thought he saw her sigh a little, as though Rosie was the troublesome one, not Griflet. "Except for that, he's right," she said. There was, for just the briefest moment, an unholy twinkle in her eye that was reminiscent of Freddie or Uncle George.

"He's insane," Rosie said, as though that made the least bit of difference. Griflet might have a strange sense of reality, Fabian thought, but his interjection had named healthy foods for what they were: gloop.

"It's really about the food groups, especially at your age," Aunt Ginny went on, as though she hadn't heard. "And good food doesn't have to taste bland."

Rosie spluttered. "But the pamphlet said..." Dammit, Fabian thought. He'd been right about Rosie's source.

"That's enough," James growled, fixing Rosie with a glare. Whatever she had been about to say died in her throat, and she suddenly became very interested in her porridge. "Grif," he added. The older boy looked up, his eyes shockingly intense. It was a look Fabian rarely saw: the one Griflet wore when the War was discussed. "Remember to change your robes after this. You have porridge on them."

"Yes Jimmy," Griflet said, and somehow Fabian was certain that, for once, he wouldn't forget.

"And Grif?" That intense gaze swivelled from James to Aunt Ginny, startling Fabian - he'd never seen Griflet respond if anyone but himself or James used the boy's first name. "Apples don't need plates."

"Yes Healer Weasley."

-----

"I'm not insane, you know," he said conversationally. It was the first time Helen had heard him speak since he'd arrived, and it startled her so badly she dropped her clipboard. She scrambled to pick it up and then, clutching it as though it might spring from her grasp again at any moment, faced her patient.

He was regarding her levelly, his eyes seeming like nothing so much as icebergs, frozen and fathoms deep, as inappropriate as the comparison was for eyes that were such a startling green. His black hair was tousled and in want of cutting. Despite his dishevelled appearance, she couldn't remember ever having a patient with such composure as he showed right now: it wasn't something you encountered often in this ward.

"Sir, you..." Even as she began, she felt the protest die on her lips. What could she possibly say to this man, who was no less personage than Harry Potter himself, that wouldn't sound like a lie in this situation? For a brief moment, the combined clout of the Prophet special edition and that deep gaze caused her conviction to waver. "You're sick," she managed at last.

He settled himself more comfortably against his pillows. "I'm not sick." He paused, and the silence stretched between them like a vast and frozen ocean that she couldn't imagine how to cross. "I'm broken."

"Sir," she began again, and again the words would not come.

"A sickness can be cured." His tone was still conversational, but those green eyes held something so terrible and heartbreaking that she couldn't begin to understand it. "Ginny is sick, you know." Helen felt something in her heart contract. Not Healer Weasley... surely there could be nothing in the world that her idol could not cure. "It's a sickness of the heart, I think," he mused, and though his gaze was still locked with hers, she felt that he was looking somehow through her, or perhaps inside her. "Perhaps she can heal, now."

Helen felt her heart constrict again, this time for him. There were words just beyond her grasp, ones that were soothing and compassionate, and even as she tried hopelessly to capture them so that she could speak, he smiled. It was a terrible, tragic smile, such as she had always imagined Lucifer must have smiled in his last moment as an angel, when he was still filled with grace but saw how broken he was. It was a smile of loss and regret too great to imagine, but without bitterness. For Lucifer, the bitterness had come later, so her village priest had always said, and with it had come the anger. She didn't know what would come next for Harry Potter, but the prospect of his fall terrified her.

"But I'm broken. The dead should never return."

She wasn't sure how much more of this she could listen to. His words were so heavy, but his voice didn't match them at all, and the difference between the two filled her heart with ice. She wanted to draw away, to flee the room and rush back to her desk, where she would write 'patient is in stable condition' on the form, just as she had every day before. "Sirius shouldn't have come back. I shouldn't have brought him back. And my parents..." He was crying now, crystal tears sliding slowly down his otherwise-calm face. Suddenly he seized up, contracting violently into a huddle. A keening that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him rose up, then climbed to a werewolf's howl.

Helen fled.

-----

One of these days, someone was going to realize it. Actually, someone already had, but he hadn't said anything and likely never would. But someday soon, someone else was going clue in, and when they did they'd accused Neville of being a suspicious bastard. And he was - oh, Merlin, was he ever - and the only real surprise was that no one but James Potter had noticed.

Neville was good-natured and friendly, but he wasn't an idiot. He got along well with people because he had a natural sense for what made them tick. He would never have dreamed of exploiting it, as a Slytherin might, but it was a gift he made use of - mostly because it told him when something was up. It was how he'd always known when Harry and the others had been sneaking around and losing them House points - even if he hadn't always spoken up about it. Or if one of the first years was looking a bit guilty, and there was a giant pile of broken pottery, Neville knew better than to fly into a rage over the poor child's clumsiness. Instead he would gently invite the child around for a bit of tea after class, and 'how is your mother these days', and perhaps a bit of 'I'm very sorry to hear that, and I hope she feels better soon.' It would have been a vast overstatement to say that he knew everything that went on in Hogwarts's hallowed halls - but he did know that there was an awful lot he didn't know about, and tried to act accordingly.

Especially when there were clues.

It was a bit like making a potion, really: most people tossed in a slug's heart and some hen's teeth, and out came a Vanishing Cream. Neville tossed them in, spilled a bit of asphodel, and one giant explosion later had a Draught of the Living Dead created out of all the wrong ingredients, and in a completely irreproducible fashion. In other words, it was the little things all shoved together in a haphazard way that was uniquely his own, out of which came an answer which was startling and unexpected, but not wrong (unless Snape was doing the grading, in which case it never had a chance of being right to begin with).

She had hesitated, when he'd asked if he should invite Malfoy along to the Three Broomsticks. Then she'd smiled, but her eyes had been just the littlest bit fearful and sad - but not hateful in the least. He'd wondered if there was a story there, but there were so many stories, and so many of them painful, that he'd resolved never to ask.

He hadn't hesitated, when her glass was empty. He'd picked up the bottle that had sat in the middle of the table and refilled it and his own as though it were the most natural act in the world. When Bletchley had asked him to pass the bottle later, he'd sneered and told him to get it himself.

She had called him 'Draco', but only after she was prompted to do so. At one point, she had called him 'Slytherin', after stumbling over the first sound as though she had been about to say something else.

He hadn't called her 'Ginny'. Despite hours of conversation, Neville hadn't heard him call her anything at all.

She'd flinched when Bletchley mentioned Scorpius Malfoy, but not when Neville had asked about Malfoy's son.

His face had gone curiously blank when the Potions teacher had talked about Harry Potter; Neville would have expected some flash of emotion, even if it was only lingering distaste from their schooldays.

And that was just those first few hours last week, right after the pair of them had been called in because of the fight between James Potter and Scorpius Malfoy. In the time since... well, it all piled up, even if it didn't add up. And it made Neville suspicious.

Perhaps, he thought, with the sort of inflection that meant there was no 'perhaps' about it, they don't hate each other after all. In fact, he suspected that at one point they had even been friends. Across the battle lines, or afterwards? There was no way to be certain, at least not unless one of them decided to talk about it - which was unlikely to happen.

Either way, it couldn't hurt to send an owl. Actually, it could: it would be rather like poking a Venomous Tentacula with a very short stick. But it would certainly be interesting.

-----

 Part Two