Chapter 4. What it's like to be reborn through fire

Harry Potter sinks further into the worn sofa in the Weasley's sitting room. Then, he learns over the coffee table and tries the motion again with his wand. When nothing happens, he balls his hands into fists and thumps one against the table.

"Where's Hermione when you need her?" he asks. "Can't anyone around here show us how to do it? I'm rubbish at transfiguration."

"Percy's good at everything," Ron says, but adds almost like an afterthought, "Except teaching."

"Is there anything else in here we can do in the meantime?" Harry asks, leafing through the hundred-page NEWT independent study packet Hermione sent to them by owl a few days ago.

"At least we know almost all of the DADA stuff."

Harry flips into another section. "When are we going to need to turn a quill into a platypus? What kind of practical application does that have?" Harry complains.

"We have to take History of Magic, too? I don't even want to think about this today. There's too much here."

"It's so overwhelming."

"Can't we get honorary NEWTs or something? Haven't we earned something for destroying all those ruddy horcruxes?"

At exactly this moment, Ginny appears in the doorway with her hands on her hips. "Oh, Prince Ron," she says in a damsel-in-distress sort of voice, "Too much of a hero to study like the rest of us."

She approaches them and leans over Harry to look through the study packet. Her hair slips out from behind her ear and her small fingers dart out to replace it. Harry catches himself staring.

"I have to study for my NEWTS too, Ron. We're in the same year now. Or will be if Hogwarts ever reopens and they don't let you lot skive off classes."

Harry hadn't yet thought of this. One good reason to finish school instead of just taking the exams – he'd have at least a few of the NEWT level classes with Ginny.

"Are you any good at transfiguration?" he asks her.

"No," she says, without looking at him. Then she backs away. "Ask George when he gets back. Or Bill. He's good at explaining things." Then she leaves the sitting room for the kitchen as swiftly as she entered it. Harry wonders if she's still upset and how long it will take for things between them to get better.

Harry and Ron give up studying a few minutes and begin a game of exploding snap. Harry keeps hoping Ginny will come back and sit with them as they wait for everyone else to get home from work, but she doesn't. In fact, he doesn't manage to see her, let alone talk to her, until everyone arrives and the Burrow is so crowded, it's about ready to burst. The chaos of enlarging the dinner table, conjuring extra chairs from the bedrooms, and greeting everyone prevents Harry from even approaching her.

At dinner, they are seated on opposite corners of the long table. Harry is seated between Ron and Mr. Weasley and Ginny is off to the other side of the table by her mother. His conversation with Ron settles largely on the excitement of George re-opening the shop the following day, and how Ron plans to call Hermione after dinner to ask if she will meet them there.

After everyone has finished eating (except for Ron, who is still shoveling down his third helping of potatoes), Bill clinks his glass in a theatrical way and stands. He is beaming, which makes the scars that line his face crease in a distorted sort of way, but Harry pretends not to notice them.

"We have some big news," he begins. He first allows for a dramatic pause and then looks at Fleur.

She stands up beside him and excitedly blurts out, "We are 'aving a baby!"

The dinner table erupts into noise and cheering. Mrs. Weasley embraces Fleur and begins to cry. When they part, she dabs at her wet eyes with her apron tail. Charlie shakes Bill's hand and pats him on the back. Ginny reaches into her pocket and hands George a few sickles, laughing outrageously. "I was only off by three months," she says with a mock-scowl. George, grinning, pockets the money.

When Mr. Weasley gets out of his seat to embrace his son, the questions start: "When is the baby due?' Ginny asks. Then Ron says loudly, before Fleur can answer, "When do you find out if it's a boy or a girl?" Mr. Weasley, releasing Bill, exclaims loudly, "I think there's some champagne left over from the wedding somewhere in the kitchen." "Oh my dears, my dears," Mrs. Weasley repeats over and over again, "I'm so happy for you both!" "Have you thought about names yet?" George asks. "How long have you known?" Mrs. Weasley asks.

"Wait for Dad to get back," Bill says.

As glasses are conjured and champagne is poured, Bill tells them that the baby is due in May and that they've known for only a week. Fleur's family already knows because she flooed Gabrielle right after she shared the news with Bill. They had been waiting for a time when the whole Weasley family could get together.

As soon as the news is given, it seems to Harry that a fog lifts from the mourning house. The prospect of new life lets something contagious loose in the air: an anticipatory, hopeful feeling. Harry is glad for it. After months of watching the Weasleys battle denial, guilt, depression and longing, and drowning in the fog of their grief, news like this gives him some hope it won't stay that way much longer.

Someone suggests a bonfire to celebrate, but Harry doesn't quite make out who in all the confusion of everyone backing out of their chairs. So, after the toast, (Fleur sips from a glass of water), the party moves out into the garden.

Harry makes his way to Bill to shake his hand and offer his congratulations. Then Fleur embraces him. "Thank you 'Arry!" she says with a bright smile.

The others are busy setting up a fire in the back yard by the time Harry makes it out there. Mr. Weasley has transfigured a rock into a basin for the fire. Charlie, George, and Percy are summoning the few weathered garden chairs they have and arranging them around the makeshift fire pit. They use charms to enlarge a few other rocks and logs for more seats. Mrs. Weasley, in her apron and house slippers, conjures a magical flame, the kind Hermione used during the months they spent hiding out in the wilderness hunting horcruxes. As they arrange themselves in the seats around the fire, Harry tries to maneuver himself to be near Ginny, but he is a little too slow. He ends up sharing a large log with Ron and George, sitting in between them. To Ron's left sits Bill and Fleur in the garden chairs. Ginny is on Fleur's left, next to Charlie and her parents and then Percy. They get situated just as the afternoon sun begins its early descent across the horizon.

Soon they are all lost in the give and take of conversation and the autumnal beauty of the garden. Harry becomes transfixed watching the firelight flicker in Ginny's eyes, so much so that he keeps losing the traces of Ron's conversation. Across the fire, Ginny's eyes crinkle with laughter at something Bill says and Harry wishes he had been sitting closer, so he could laugh with her too. This realization strikes him as pitiful and he turns back to Ron.

"Can you believe Hermione's already a quarter of the way through that packet she made us? She's been studying non-stop, it seems."

"Honestly, Ron. It doesn't surprise me," Harry responds.

"I sent her an owl earlier and she said she can meet us in Diagon Alley tomorrow for the Re-Opening Ceremony. Her parents are coming too."

"Great," Harry says, without any feeling behind it.

It isn't that he's annoyed with Ron or that he doesn't want to see Hermione. It's more that since Ron and Hermione have been spending their evenings talking on the telephone and tea time meeting in quaint shops in muggle London, Harry has begun come to terms with that aspect of his two best friends' lives. And what's more, he understands completely: they've been given a reprieve of sorts, having survived all they all survived, and they're making use of time they thought they wouldn't have.

So when Ron spends his Hermione-less evenings talking about her to anyone with ears to listen (including George with his one), Harry cuts him some slack. And as strange as it is to hear Ron go on about Hermione, the way she smells, how soft she is, how much he enjoys kissing her, how smart she is, Harry listens. He listens even after everyone else in the house has become fed up.

When Harry thinks back to his walk with his parents through the forbidden forest—his walk towards death—he remembers the feelings that came with it: regret that his time was over, sorrow that he wouldn't see any of his friends or Ginny again, have a family or grow old, the dull pain of acceptance deep in his chest. It still tinges occasionally. Only now, he feels it for his parents. He feels it for Sirius and Remus and Tonks, and for Fred. All their lives were stolen out from them before they had the chance to really live them.

That's how he finds himself staring at Ginny from across the fire and nodding politely to whatever Ron is telling him about Hermione's plans for the future and the things they're going to do together now that the war is over. Even when Harry gets smoke in his eyes and removes his glasses to rub them, he is still focused on Ginny's presence: the warm blur of her across the fire.

"They're finally repaired the tracks leading to the most secure accounts," Bill is saying to Ron, Percy and George. Fleur leans her head against his shoulder and squeezes his hand as she talks quietly to Ginny.

"You should hear the sorts of complains we've been getting – how unprofessional it is for the most privileged wizards not to be able to access their safely deposits. I heard one story about a wizard who had deposited a diamond ring back in April. He intended to propose in June and was just able to get the ring out last week."

"But haven't people read The Daily Prophet or the Quibbler's account of what happened?" Ron asks. "Or heard that we only broke in so we could defeat Voldemort? Or have they already forgotten about him? Bunch of gits."

"Their complaints aren't so much about the destruction," Bill goes on, "But about the slow pace of the reconstruction. The break-in has caused the goblins to distrust wizards even more. They won't even let wizards help with the rebuilding. Never were too good at construction spells either, goblins."

"Seems like you pushed wizard-goblin relations back a couple hundred years. Between you lot breaking into Gringotts and Neville pulling Gryffindor's sword out of the hat," George interjects.

"Don't say that around Hermione," Ron says.

"Still going on about SPEW, is she?" George asks with a sly smile.

"She wants to work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

"Power to her," says Mrs. Weasley over the fire.

"What about you, Ronald? Any thoughts on what you're going to do?" Percy asks in his stringy voice.

Ron reaches over across Harry and nudges George.

"Need an assistant?" Ron asks, only half jokingly.

"Already have one. You remember Verity."

"But I'm your brother."

"All the more reason not to hire you," George says. "Besides, I thought you were going to become an auror with Harry."

"But… we'll have to go back to school for that," he mutters, trailing off.

"Oi, Harry, are you still going to be an auror?"

"Err," he starts. "If I get past training, I suppose."

When Charlie gets up to grab a case of butterbeer from the kitchen and Mrs. Weasley goes to fetch the apple tarts, Harry moves to the open seat next to Ginny.

"Hey," he says to her as he sitting down.

"Hey," she says back. Her cheeks are pink from the warmth of the fire. She has her sneakered feet balanced against a log lining the fire pit, so close that Harry wouldn't be surprised if her shoes had already begun to melt.

Mrs. Weasley comes out from the kitchen soon after with a magically-enhanced tray full of apple tarts.

"Oh, Mrs. Weezley, you did not 'ave to go though all zee trouble."

"Don't thank me," Mrs. Weasley replies. "Ginny and Harry had the harder job of picking the apple trees. It took them a few hours. I just threw these into the oven."

"Zank you very much. They are lovely."

As they all eat, all Harry can hear is Ron's chewing, the sound of the crackling fire, and the gradual chirping of nearby crickets. The air is calm and peaceful, though it carries in its breeze a hint of the winter chill ahead.

In the relative silence, Harry feels the thought going through the minds of each of the Weasleys in turn: if only Fred were here, this evening would be perfect.

Ron breaks the silence. "Maybe it would have been easier if Hogwarts had reopened in September. Would've felt more normal."

No one responds right away.

Then Mrs. Weasley says, "It won't ever be the same."

They get like this sometimes and Harry usually tries to find shadows to inhabit to escape. It's moments like these where he really feels like an outsider among them. He looks up and Fleur and finds that she is looking back at him with understanding in her bright blue eyes. They both stay silent.

"Way to be a downer, Ron," Ginny says pointedly.

George lowers his head. It's obvious that the others are trying hard not to look at him, as if he were something fragile and afraid, something that would run away if spotted. Harry, too, tries not to watch him too closely.

"Is that the signal that it's time to call it a night?" Mr. Weasley asks. "We all have an early morning tomorrow."

He and Mrs. Weasley say their goodbyes and head back to bed. "Don't forget to put out that fire," she calls from the kitchen.

The others sit a while longer by the fireside, talking again of the baby. It is nearly midnight when Bill and Fleur stand to leave and take the Floo back to Shell Cottage. Ginny follows them inside. After putting out the fire, Charlie apparates home and Percy goes up to bed.

"I think I'll call Hermione to say goodnight," Ron says. "Are you heading to bed too, Harry?"

"In a bit."

Harry and George sit quietly beside the burnt-out ashes. Though the fire has been put out, the logs Mr. Weasley had conjured give off a slight warmth and the air still smells of smoke and burning leaves.

George pulls a folded piece of parchment from the pocket of his pants. After turning it over in his hands a few times, he slowly holds it out to the fire. The flames lick at its surface, turning the edge to black ash in his hand. George holds onto the paper as long as it's possible without burning himself. When he lets it go, it drifts down to the flames and Harry just makes out the melting blue seal of the Order. He keeps his eyes on the fire until the paper has completely disintegrated. Then he looks up at George, who lets out a sigh and stands up as if to say, that's the end of that. He meets Harry's eyes with an unreadable expression but Harry recognizes the resignation behind it. He doesn't ask what the paper was.

"Night, Harry," George says.

"Night."

Harry stays out in the night air, waiting for Ginny. She always flies before bed. It must relax her. Let her escape herself for a while. Clear her mind. So, Harry sits beside the fire pit and waits.

The season's last elusive fireflies light up in the air around him and the fire's warm ashes grow steadily cold. He watches the night sky. There's a crispness to the air as it moves through the darkened trees. The slight rustle it makes among the leaves tells Harry that time is still moving forward; and precious though these moments are, they are his to waste or spend freely.

The thought hits him then, that today is a burning day.

The end of something, and the beginning of something else. It isn't just the shift into autumn, though that's part of it. A day with a new feeling about it. A burning day.

The idea is still twisting in his mind a few minutes later, when Ginny opens the door to the back garden slowly and quietly, as if she has become an expert in avoiding its creaks though out the years. She closes it behind her just as noiselessly and turns around.

"Ginny," Harry whispers, and moves slightly so as not to surprise her and catch her off guard.

It doesn't work. She gasps and whips out her wand, aiming it at Harry's chest mercilessly.

"It's me. Harry," he manages to get out before whatever hex she is considering leaves her mouth.

"Merlin, Harry. Don't do that! I thought you were… a death eater or something."

"A death eater?" he asks, incredulously. It has been months since the last of the suspected death eaters have been caught, tried, and sent to Azkaban.

"An escaped death eater, then."

"Sorry," he whispers. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"What are you doing creeping around out here in the dark, anyway?"

"To be honest… I was waiting for you. I know you like to fly before going to bed and I thought you might let me join you. And apologize for earlier."

"You don't have to apologize. Really," she says. "I was being… maybe just a little unreasonable. I was thinking about what you said and, you know what? I think you're right, at least a little bit. I have been sort of ignoring you. And not completely on accident."

Harry had expected it to be easy with her. He had imagined they would fall back together effortlessly. That she might have reached for his hand at one of the funerals, or ran into his arms after the last battle, or pulled him into her room and kissed him like she did on his birthday the year before. He had been thinking and dreaming of that kiss for a long time. The way she felt so soft and warm in his arms, the flower-scent of her hair. But mostly he remembers how it felt having her mouth opened to his like that. His face grows red now, as he remembers the sensations she made him feel that summer day. He is glad then, for the night sky to hide behind.

For the second time that day, Harry follows Ginny down the garden path to the broom shed. She retrieves the brooms much quicker this time and mounts hers (Fred's) without getting that distant and sullen look in her eyes. Her hair catches the light of the moon, glowing red. Harry once again is transfixed by her, by the person she has become, strong and whole and honest.

They take off into the night like two shooting stars, past the orchard and the swamp, higher into the cold air.

He can see the occasional glimmer of Ginny in the light of the crescent moon as she flies ahead of him. Harry relaxes and breathes in the autumn air, slowing and watching her as she glides through the trees. They are out past the orchard now, near the end of the property, and Ginny is practicing dives and ascents and letting the night sky blow through her hair.

There's something about a clear night like this that makes Harry think anything is possible.

So, a half hour later, after they have once again touched ground and are walking toward the broom shed, Harry grabs her hand. The night air has turned it cold and dry, but he slips his fingers in between hers and squeezes slowly.

"Ginny," he says.

She stops walking and turns to face him. She is smiling, but confused.

"I wanted to talk to you all day. I … I didn't mean to push you. If you don't want to talk about," he swallows, "it." He takes a deep breath and pushes on, "That's fine. I—"

"Harry," she says inexplicably.

"Please listen. I just… I have to get this out: I'm sorry for breaking up with you, and for leaving and not writing. But I want you to know that I thought of you every day. I watched your dot on the map all the way up until you left Hogwarts. You were the last thing I thought of before I fell asleep and before Voldemort…" he swallows again, not wanting to think about how much it hurt when he thought he was seeing her for the last time, but not being able to get it out of his mind. His throat tightens and he can't go on.

Ginny moves toward him in the dark and wraps her arms around him. She rests her face in the crook of his neck, her skin cold and chapped from the wind. He puts his arms around her, holding her to him and regains his courage.

Harry leans forward and kisses her. Her nose is cold and wet and presses into his like an icicle. But the warmth of her lips and the familiarity of her comes back to him. Maybe it's that so much time has passed since he lat felt her lips on his, but every nerve in his body seems to be on fire. He can't stop himself from pressing his body against hers.

She laughs. Or, something like a laugh escapes her. She presses back, causing Harry to inhale sharply, and then she shoves him away playfully.

"Harry," she says in a tone that manages to be both admonishing and mischievous at the same time.

"Ginny," he returns, entreatingly. His hands reach her hips and pull her towards him. And when he finds her lips again in the dark, she doesn't protest, but kisses him back with the same intensity.

The leaves crunch under their feet and the scent of fire reaches him. It's on her clothes, in her hair, on her skin. They stay that way for a long time, pressed together in the light of the moon, as time turns over another burning day.