Harry Potter and No Trace Of You

Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

Harry spent the afternoon reading through the files, their most recent cases, both solved and unsolved, some in his own handwriting. Unfortunately it was all meaningless facts without context and it ended up only making Harry more frustrated.

He also read through a set of basic defensive texts he'd found in the study, trying out spells, but it was pretty hit or miss. He tried again and again, fumbling to memorize incantations, to connect instinctual feelings to rational decisions. He had some success, but it never felt like enough.

He made a particularly disastrous mess of a spell one day, knocking over an entire bookshelf. Books scattered everywhere with an enormous crash. He cursed, hunkering down to pick up the first book, but his hands closed around it and then next thing he knew, he was chucking it at the wall. And another and another.

Throwing a fit like a toddler, and it didn't make him feel any better. At least he managed to get it all cleared away before Ginny got back.

He sat on the couch, staring at the widow. The expulsion of energy left him listless, like it had burned it all out of him, and now all he really wanted to do was sit and stare at a wall, because what was the point of any of it?

"Hi, Harry," Ginny called as she appeared back in the flat.

He sighed, and heaved himself to his feet.

His days took on an empty, lethargic quality after that. He told Ron not to bother dropping by if he was too busy, the energy of having to face his old partner too much to muster. He didn't want to think about the job he used to have, the place where he used to belong, the wife he used to have. Instead he watched the spotty old television, letting the hours slide by.

He went to bed early and slept in late, because it wasn't like he fucking knew how to do anything around Ginny. How to act and not just make things worse. How to deal with her truncated gestures and bit-back words and continual disappointment. He didn't know how to sort out what he was supposed to feel and what he did feel and what was rational and what didn't fucking make sense.

So he didn't try.

He was left in peace for almost three days.

After a brisk knock on the door, Ginny walked into the bedroom, apparently uncaring that he was still sleeping.

He blearily looked up at her, taking in the athletic clothes she was wearing. She looked wide-awake and put together and far too beautiful for first thing in the morning. Or afternoon, he realized, glancing at the clock. Whatever.

"I'm not in the mood for a run," he said, laying his arm across his face.

"You aren't in the mood for anything," she corrected. "Luckily I don't give a shite."

She threw something at him, and instinctively he reached out to grab the broom before it smacked him in the face.

"We leave in five, Potter."

Her long ponytail whipped about as she turned on her heel, leaving him staring after her. He wanted to roll back over in bed and go back to sleep, but he had a feeling Ginny would never let him get away with it.

Grumbling under his breath, he dragged on some clothes. He would do a half hour of whatever the hell she wanted, just to get her out of his hair. Then he could get back to...whatever the hell he was doing.

Ginny looked distinctly unimpressed when he finally wandered out into the kitchen. She lit a fire, pushing him in before dropping a handful of powder and shouting, "The Burrow!"