FicWad

All of a sudden, all became hush-hush, only the heart-breaking sobs of the small girl broke the silence. The Longbottoms reacted first, as it was expected.

Neville threw a pinch of Floo powder in the fireplace, crying out “Emergency Ward, St. Mungo's” and paced impatiently around, waiting for the Healer-on-duty to answer. At the same time, Hannah rushed to Ginevra, effortlessly lifting her tiny frame from the ground and hugging the small girl to herself. In quick succession, she drew her wand with her free hand and cast a quick Stasis charm on her father; she had no time to do any basic diagnostic spells at him, seeing the amount of blood he'd lost in such short time. The best she could do is stabilize him and let the Healers do their job.

With her next wand movement, she summoned a glass of water and made Ginevra drink some of it. She barely sensed the surprising strength the girl was clinging on to her with, but feeling her body shaking in her hands, hearing her hiccoughing broke Hannah's heart. Her own eyes flushed with tears, she just held her, whispering inconsistent words of solace into her ears. Slowly, the girl calmed down a bit, and Hannah walked her over to her father again, who, by this time, was already tended to by two Healers.

One of the Healers was performing refined Diagnostic spells on the man, who, by this time, was lying on his back on a stretcher and already had been applied a Breathing Charm, The blood on the floor had already been syphoned away, but there still were stains on his clothes and in his hair, and his face was deadly pale.

“Healer Morris, what does he look like?” Hannah inquired in a sharper than usual voice, still shaken by the events, fighting her internal turmoil.

“You most prolly saved his life, with that Stasis Charm of yours, Missus.” The short, bald Healer, a frequent visitor of the pub, scratched behind his ear, then cast an approving glance at the young witch. “That was quick thinking of you. By the time we got here, he musta bled to death, the poor chap.”

“At least /him/, I could save,” muttered Hannah, under her breath, but Healer Morris had a good hearing.

“Pardon me, Missus, what was that?” he raised his voice, but Hannah was not in the mood to discuss that. That scene, the picture of that sixth-year Slytherin girl dying in her arms in the Great Hall, as her blood was slowly draining from the wound where her right arm had been just a few minutes ago, severed by Fenrir Greyback, was firmly burnt onto her retina and had been haunting her ever since, after so many years. Had she known the Stasis Charm then, she might have been able to save Daphne, who, together with Astoria, her sister, turned against their house mates and paid with their lives.

With an impatient gesture, she shooed away the question. “You already know what's with him, right?” she interjected.

“She his daughter?” Morris answered with a question. Seeing her nod silently, he winked. “Why don't ya just get her away from 'ere? We'll patch 'im up in a mum.”

Hannah led the girl away, out of sight. Replacing her on the floor again, she knelt down before her. “Ginevra, sweetheart, you remember where my room is, right?”

“Yes, Mrs. Longbottom, I remember,” she answered in a small voice, still hoarse from crying.

“Very good. Now, I won't let you sleep alone tonight, so you are going to sleep with me. I want you to go to my room and go to bed. I'll wait here until your Dad's transported to St. Mungo's and then I'll come up to you. How does it sound?” she smiled at the girl, not even expecting an answer from her.

“But... where is Mr. Longbottom going to sleep?”

Hannah emitted a nervous laugh and kissed her on the forehead. “Don't you worry about my husband. Just go upstairs, sweetie, will you?”

Nodding silently, the girl obediently turned around and made her way towards the stairs, while Hannah returned to Healer Morris.

“How bad is it? Don't hem and haw, Morris, I need to know!”

The Healer wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his robe. “'Onestly, Missus, I'd be very much surprised if he'd made it into the morning. Internal bleeding, perforated ulcer, three pints of blood lost, what we see now. We'll have to move 'm now, 'mafraid.”

Hardly had he finished his words, when the wand of his colleague emitted a red spark and the man on the stretcher, still unconscious, started to seize again. The two Healers grabbed the stretcher and rushed to the fireplace. Ginevra, who by now had made it halfway to the second floor, heard the commotion and turned around, rushing downstairs again, as fast as her trembling legs were permitting. She barely managed to catch a glimpse of the Healers, disappearing with her father in the green flames.

With an ear-piercing cry, she threw herself after them, only to be stopped by Hannah the very last moment. Grabbing her with both hands, the witch looked seriously into her eyes.

“Ginevra, your Dad will be fine, but you can't go there right now. I will take you to St. Mungo's tomorrow first thing in the morning, it's a promise. Let's go to sleep now.”

“No!” the young girl cried, struggling to break out of her firm grip. “You don't understand! I want to see him now!” With a final jerk, she managed to break free and ran towards the door. The startled Hannah stood there for a fracture of a second too long, then threw herself after the girl. Once in the street, however, she had to admit she'd lost her.

Ginevra ran. She didn't know where, and she didn't care. She just wanted to find her Dad, the only living soul she could ever call family. She ran, bumping into occasional passers-by. She ran, kicking over a dustbin. She ran, out of breath, until the very end of the world, as it seemed.

She ran across a street, heeding Merlin knows where. Her world suddenly went white, as the headlights, mercilessly, came closer and closer. Then, everything went blank.

*

If anyone, Muggle or Wizard, could get past the wards around the small, two-storey, semi-detached house, built from grey stones in one of the silent side streets adjoining Grimmauld Place, he would have seen a picture, far from what the idyllic surroundings were suggesting. In fact, the past seven years the house had frequently been a silent witness to such events, so the walls - were they humans – just would've closed their eyes and stopped their ears and waited for the storm to pass.

In the house, more precisely in the living room were a witch and a wizard, the regular participants to these events. The witch, a well-shaped young woman in her mid-twenties, with her flame red hair and freckled face couldn't have denied being an offspring of the huge Weasley clan, most notably being Ginevra Molly Weasley, the only daughter of Molly and Arthur Weasley. Quidditch fans would know her from the fact that she was the best Chaser in the League the last ten years and the biggest asset of the Hollyhead Harpies, while the average Wizarding population of England would refer to her as the “girlfriend of the Boy-who-defeated-Voldemort-and-lived-to-tell-his-tale”. While she certainly had outgrown her status of “being the girlfriend of”, what with being a world famous Quidditch player and having taken an active part in England's historical World Cup win last year, 139 years after the last win, in fact she still was Harry Potter's girlfriend.

This had, of course, several reasons. Harry'd already asked her, and shed been wearing her engagement ring with great pride ever since her 21st birthday. However, they had to postpone their wedding several times. There was always something, driving them slowly crazy. Quidditch, Harry's Auror assignments, some of them secret or long-term, or simply ups-and-downs in their relationship; it seemed as if everybody and everything was against them.

This time, the living room was witnessing one of the regular “downs” in the young couple's life. Harry James Potter, the other participant, was silently standing in the middle of the living room. By now he had already been well trained; his previous encounters with the infamous Prewett temper of her fiancée taught him to completely ignore her and wait until the storm passes. She would be cursing him loud for a good fifteen minutes, then she would go up to sleep alone leaving Harry sleep downstairs on the sofa, and the next morning they would have mind-blowing make-up sex.

This night, however, there were no signs of Ginny ever willing to stop. And Harry couldn't even recall, even in the coming days, what had really prompted her to blow all her fuses. After all, unexpected assignments were part of his job at the Auror Department and, while they'd talked over it several times, Ginny didn't want him quit his job, to quit doing what he was really good at.

So, tonight was something different, Harry suspected that, but nevertheless was preparing to leave for the Ministry as if nothing had happened. He had no intentions of engaging into verbal battle with her; he knew he'd lose it in an instant. His silence, however, raged Ginny even more, and it was only his Seeker reflexes that saved him, as he suddenly ducked, narrowly avoiding being hit full in his face with a wine glass Ginny had sent at him. She was crying something against him, but he couldn't make out the words. With a swift movement, he captured the second wine glass as if it were a Snitch and carefully put it down on the table. Summoning his keys, he cast a sad, longing glance at Ginny, then, still without a word, he silently closed the entrance door behind him.

Once in the street, he blew out the spent air he'd been accumulating in his lungs as he leaned against a wall and closed his eyes; it seemed as if he had forgotten to breathe in the last fifteen minutes. His head was filled with an inconsistent mass of different thoughts as he was slowly replaying the scene he'd just escaped. Growling with badly disguised frustration, he walked down the lane to the spot he'd parked his car and his eyes, his emerald eyes inherited from his mother, slowly filled with huge pearls of genuine tears.

When he finally, after dropping the car key from his shaking hands, managed to open the door, he just sat there for a while, resting his head on the steering wheel. Blinking away his tears, he tried to start the engine, but it wouldn't. He tried it again, and again, and again, to no avail. Suddenly, his phone rang, and he was surprised to see Ginny's name on the display. Not feeling the inner strength to talk to her and listen to her tirade, yet again, he dismissed the call and threw the Nokia behind his shoulder, not caring where it would land.

“Merlin, please make this blasted car start!” he prayed silently as he drew a sharp breath and tried to fire up the engine again. This time, he had more success and the V6 woke with a distinctive growl. Emitting a relieved sigh, he engaged “D” and pulled out of the parking spot. Only the screeching sound of the tyres and the revving of the engine signalled that he'd ever been there, but the noises soon diminished and there was complete silence in the deserted street again.

Speeding away from his misery, he didn't notice the small figure crossing the street in front of him until it was too late.