Even the Bravest

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize isn't mine.

It's the day of Fred's funeral.

Fred's funeral.

Fred's funeral.

The words are haunting him, because they just cannot be true. It's an oxymoron, because no on in their right mind would pair such opposites as "Fred" and "funeral" together. Fred Weasley is such a lively, vivid, hilarious, daring, living person. How could anyone give him a funeral?

Harry sinks to his knees when he realizes that Fred no longer is.

Even though he saw it happen, witnessed Fred's death, carried his lifeless body, Harry still cannot quite believe that he is gone. Part of him still thinks that Fred will pop up somewhere, laughing, saying that it was all a joke. George will chortle and say that he was in on it the whole time.

George. How Harry's heart aches and aches and aches for him. He cannot imagine how it would feel to lose a brother, a best friend, a companion, and a twin all at the same time.

He is glad he cannot imagine the pain George must be feeling. Harry doesn't think his heart could stand any more.

Of course, however, if he could take all their pain away, and put it on himself, he would do it in an instant. He wishes he could.

Harry begins his walk down to the Great Hall, where Fred's service, like so many other recent funerals, will be held. He concentrates on walking, putting one foot in front of the other. He tries so hard to forget everything that happened, to put it out of his mind forever. But that's impossible.

There is hardly a moment when he does not think of them, of Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Colin, and all the others that they lost forever. It is not only those who died in the recent battle that haunt him. His mind is constantly drawn to his parents, Dumbledore, Sirius, Mad-Eye.... All those he could not save.

Harry can never escape the pain. Even in his sleep, he dreams of death, tragedy, and pain… So much pain…

The best part of his day is when he has just woken up, the moment between sleeping and waking. It is then when he cannot quite remember, a millisecond of bliss.

He enters the Great Hall. There are people milling around everywhere, hugging, crying, or just standing there, stony-faced, with an expression of pure desolation. Harry is one of the latter.

He spots Mrs. Weasley. Her eyes are red, her hair is frazzled, and her robes are on backwards. Tears are running down her cheeks. When she sees him, she tries to smile, but fails dismally.

It's alright. He doesn't deserve one.

Harry moves away from her, not meeting her eyes. It is his fault her son it dead. He is guiltier than sin.

It makes him flinch when people tell him what a hero he is. Harry is not a hero, because is he was, no one he loved would have died. Harry remembers what Ron and Hermione said when he told them all this.

"It's not your fault that Fr- that people died, Harry. No one blames you! It was You-, oh, alright, Voldemort who killed them, not you!"

"You saved us! So many more people would have died if it hadn't been for you! There was nothing you could have done! Nothing!"

Ron had been partially right. No one did blame Harry, save himself, but they should.

Hermione hadn't understood either. Yes, Harry had defeated Voldemort, and he did save more people from being killed, but this wasn't the ending he pictured. He supposes part of him had always thought that after Voldemort was killed, everything would be perfect. Everyone who had died at his hand could come back to life, injuries would disappear, and all evil would disappear. They would live happily ever after, just like in Muggle fairy tales.

Muggles knew nothing of the real magical world.

The funeral is about to begin. The Great Hall is almost full now. The room is bursting with noise, but not in a good way. It's as though everyone is trying to block out their grief.

People around Harry jostle him, and some even call out to him, but he doesn't answer. He barely registers what they are saying. He doesn't want to. There are hundred of people crammed into that room, but Harry has never felt so alone in his life. He knows he could go talk to someone, but he can't think of anyone whose company he wants. He thinks briefly of Ron and Hermione, until he sees them together, across the room. They are both crying and holding hands, so tightly it looks as though they will never let go. He doesn't want to interrupt them.

Then the crowd shifts slightly, and Harry notices someone who, suddenly, he needs to be near. He moves toward her.

Ginny Weasley's hair is as ragged as her mothers, and she looks as though she has slept, or rather, tossed and turned, in her clothes for the past three days. She has several scratches and bruises from the battle against Voldemort, but she is still the most beautiful woman he has ever laid eyes on. It tears his heart in two, yet again, to see her like this.

They have not talked since the battle that left her brother dead. Harry wants to tell her that he loves her, and always will, but, amidst all this pain, he cannot quite find the words.

He is now right next to her, and Ginny turns to face him. Her face is as void of tears as his, but he does not doubt her terrible grief. He himself feels as though he has used all of his tears up.

"Harry," she says dazedly, "He's dead."

Her once bright, determined brown eyes are now dull. It is this that makes Harry realize that he still has tears left to shed. He leans onto her shoulder and sobs.

She puts her arms around his neck, and strokes his hair. They remain like that in silence for a few minutes. Harry thinks vaguely that he should say something to comfort her, but then realizes that his silence is more honest. Any words he could say would be empty.

"Harry," Ginny says again presently. He lifts his head off her shoulder, leaving a wet spot on her robes, and looks up at her. Her eyes are still dry, even as her voice breaks. "Fr… Fred used to tell me, when I was little, to be brave and not cry whenever I fell, or got teased. I'm trying to be brave for him now, but, oh, Harry. It's so hard."

They lapse into silence once more. Her face is twisted with grief, but still, she holds back her tears. He loves her so much.

And then, suddenly, he realizes that he can say something that is not just empty words, even if it isn't comforting.

"Even… even the bravest cry, Ginny. Everyone does; everyone falls. It's the bravest people who get back up again."

At that, tears fall from her eyes, and now it is her head on his shoulder, his hands stroking her long, red hair. After a moment, she speaks again, her voice slightly muffled.

"I'm not sure I'm one of the bravest, Harry."

"I'm not sure I'm one of them, either," answers Harry. He is not quite sure where all this is coming from, but he knows it is right. He is still crying; his tears are falling on her vivid head. "But together, I know we can be."

Ginny raises her head at that, although tears are still running down her cheeks, leaving tracks on her grimy face.

"Yes," she says simply. "Together."

It's not a question. It's an answer.

Her head sinks back onto his shoulder, and her arms encircle him. It is not quite spoken between them, but both understand that they are back together, and will be eternally. Her crying has not subsided at all, and Harry's grief has not ebbed away in the slightest. Yet as they stand there, arms around each other, pulling one another up, Harry feels a very different emotion from grief and anger rise inside him. It takes a moment for him to recognize it as hope.

Hey,

I didn't think I'd ever write anything Harry/Ginny. It's my favorite pairing, but I love the way JK Rowling writes them so much, and I didn't want to touch that. However, the other day, I was reading the beginning of this fic (Fix You, a promise by Angelina Johnson, by Reels). There's a line about Ginny not crying at Fred's funeral, and suddenly, this whole fic constructed itself in my head. It was too good of an idea not to write. Please review and let me know how it turned out!

-Julia