May 1998
"You coming?"
Ron's voice was scratchy and cracked, like he'd swallowed mouthfuls of dust. Perhaps he had. The dust was everywhere, blanketing the wreckage that was Hogwarts, swirling bits of debris that were slow to settle, turning the air thick and heavy, bordering on opaque.
For a moment, Harry considered letting the Weasleys leave without him. Sometime between Voldemort falling and the Weasleys deciding to return to the Burrow, Harry had sat down. The stairwell leading to the Hogwarts entrance hall was cracked in a way that mirrored Ron's voice, a deep fracture somewhere near the middle, fanning out and crumbling the ancient stone. Harry was sitting right at the edge, his shoulder pressed against the bannister.
The entrance hall was broken bodies and muffled sobs, the hum of scratchy conversations and Peeves floating above the wreckage eerily quiet, his bell-covered hat tingling almost gently. In the back of his mind Harry was grateful for the thick layer of dust, shrouding any grisly details kindly from his view.
"Do you need help getting up?" Hermione asked, and Harry didn't know how she did it. She'd remained upright this whole time, holding Ron's hand, walking this way and that, adding to the hum of conversation.
Harry shook his head minutely. Even just that small motion sent a flare of gnawing pain down his neck, all the way down his shoulders, his arm. He shouldn't have sat down – he'd been fine before. Well. Not fine, obviously not fine, but able to move at the very least. The moment he'd sat down his body had begun to crumble, turning heavy as lead and endlessly sluggish, crawling with blistering pain.
Somehow, Harry got up. Somehow, he followed the Weasleys through the endlessly busy floo in McGonagall's office. Somehow, the powdery scent of the floo network didn't cling to his body. Didn't mask the incessant, lingering scent of fiendfyre. At the Burrow, Harry dropped into an empty bed in an empty room and whenever he shifted, trying to move his screaming body as little as possible, the scent of fiendfyre rose and crowded his mind.
Harry closed his eyes and saw mountains of treasured items, felt nails digging into his chest, panicked breath hot at the back of his neck. Haltingly, he slipped into sleep. In his dream, Peeves collected broken clutter off the floor of the Room of Requirement, fixing each item with a touch of his knotted purplish fingers. Once fixed, he handed the clutter to Malfoy. His face drawn and slick with sweat, Malfoy levitated the clutter onto towering piles, creating mountain upon mountain of hidden things.
Harry's room in the Burrow was small. A slanted wooden ceiling, a thick striped rug, paper stars tied to strings of red wool hanging above his bed. A dusty Quaffle, and an empty owl cage, all of it deep red and soft yellow, a smattering of gold.
"Whose room is this?" he asked belatedly, after a handful more fractured dreams and pale sunrise or two.
Ginny was perched on his bed, in her hands a wooden breakfast tray. Coffee, tea, orange juice. A glass of water swirling with vivid blue pain potion. Buttered bread and a muffin. A handful of daisies in a chipped crystal vase. Ginny shouldn't have to bring him breakfast. Harry should just go to the kitchen. Harry should probably sleep in Ginny's room.
"Bill's," Ginny said quietly. She sat the tray on the nightstand, then spooned sugar into the tea. Stirred it, then pushed the mug towards Harry.
"Is Bill not here?"
"Bill's at Mungo's," Ginny replied, "Greyback got him. Just a bit." Ginny pulled in a long, shaky breath. "He'll be fine," she added, and her lip was trembling.
The next time Harry fell asleep he was in the Burrow's garden. Grass tickled at his bare arms and he stared blearily up into a cherry tree. Only a handful of pale pink blossoms clung to the branches, the rest of them wilting and wrinkled in the grass around him. The sun hung low in the sky over the ramshackle garden shed and for a long moment, Harry wasn't certain whether it was rising or setting. Ron was beside him, lying on his stomach, entirely quiet, his face hidden in the shelter of his arms.
YOU ARE READING
Cut From the Sky
Fanfiction"I'm stuck in a time loop, reliving November 2nd. This is the 111th time I've lived through today." Draco stilled. His moody eyes, the tension in his hands where he gripped onto his umbrella, the careful mask of blankness flickering over his face...
