Bathwater

Laughing All the Way

"Jingle bells—"

"God, please no."

"Jingle bells—"

"Stop it."

"Jingle all the way! Oh, what fun it is to ride on a one-horse open sleigh!"

"Ginny," hissed Hermione as she pulled herself up from the soft, warm mattress. "Will you please shut up?"

Grinning wide despite the furious, sleepy expression on Hermione's face, Ginny waltz into the room, spinning every two steps until she jumped up on her bed. She had on a knitted pink scarf that was doing absolutely nothing to compliment the shiny red of her hair, but matched with her pajama set. 

"Bet you regret teaching me that song now," she said, squeezing Hermione's ankle. When the latter rolled her eyes, Ginny earnestly added, "Happy Christmas, 'Mione."

"Oh, Happy Christmas," Hermione said instantly, her arms quickly coming around Ginny for a proper hug. "Did Mrs. Weasley make that?"

Ginny looked down at her scarf and sleepwear, letting out an indignant huff. "Don't think you haven't got your own set," she was quick to say. "If I recall, actually, Mum did ask me what you'd like best, a purple set or a green set. Of course, I told her as the future wife of a Slytherin, maybe the green would be better."

Hermione clunked Ginny on the head with one of her pillows. "Why are you awake so early?"

"I've been up," Ginny told her, the mirth she had been displaying was now fading away. She grabbed the pillow from Hermione's hands, tucking it under her chin. For a moment, she remembered on old, patchy stuffed rabbit of her youth, one that braved every nightmare, every storm, and every mishap with her. 

When the old stuffed animal had been lost in a trip to Diagon Alley, Ginny would climb into Fred's bed and he'd tuck her under his chin like she was the little brave rabbit. 

"Mum and Dad were arguing all night," she murmured, lost in the memory. "Well, Mum was arguing and Dad was listening. She's not happy about Angelina Johnson."

"I thought Mrs. Weasley liked Angelina? She met her when the Triwizard Tournament was happening at Hogwarts and only had lovely things to say about her."

"Yes, but she met her as Fred's girlfriend, didn't she?"

"But they weren't together when he...you know."

Ginny took in a deep breath to try and keep the grief at bay. The mention of Fred's name burned deeper than on the surface of her skin; it reached her bones, turned them to ash, then went for her blood. It was still unlike any other pain she had ever felt—it was even worse than Voldemort draining her of her soul.

And, somehow, Ginny was the only one doing better at dealing with that pain: her mother cried every single night, the walls rattling, threatening to fall apart into dust by the sound. And when she was not crying, she was clinging on to her children, pushing them against her chest like she hoped they would disappear into her bones and always be protected by the love, desperation, and heartache she carried. Her father, ever the calm one, ever the reasonable one, burned his garage down; if his son could not get to live to enjoy life's little things, then why should he, a man ripe with age, a man who had outlived his son, get to find comfort in the odd trinkets Fred used to laugh at? Bill, who had his wife, who was always living for adventure, hardly left his house most days; he looked outside his window constantly, searching for enemies despite the thick layer of protective charms he cast around Shell Cottage. Fleur had to rid their house of all the books riddled with dark, dangerous curses that promised safety before Bill tore into them again, searching for all the ways he should have been able to save Fred. Charlie, who Ginny believed all of her life was only capable of being happy, carried a remorse so heavy his dragons could hardly sustain him on their backs. He spent a month in Fred and George's old room; curled into a ball, buried under Fred's old bedsheets, crying into his pillows, screaming, screaming, screaming at anyone who dared to pull him out of Fred's bed. Percy, who knew how to keep his head up through anything, could hardly peel himself off Fred's tomb. With his own hands, he dug into the soil, desperate to get beneath it, desperate to hold on to what was left of Fred, like in a childhood memory from a different life, back before he developed a thirst for power and the twins thought him a prat. Percy, who prided himself in his wit, drank his brain, liver, heart, guilt away for weeks until their mother cried, cried, cried that she could not lose another son. Ron, whose greatest quality was his loyalty, set every relationship he had on fire. The rage inside of him demanded blood, no matter who it came from. He tore his own heart out, Hermione's name written along the ridges, and scratched it away; too angry to care about love, too angry to care about life when Fred did not get any of it.