The Blowers Daughter

Hitting a low and reaching a turn

Lucius Malfoy’s funeral was a quite affair. The Malfoy name was now dead, and Snape had a television brought into Hermione’s room so that she could watch the announcement of the end of a family. Hermione could barely pay attention to the television, she seemed far more interested in pressing the buttons on the remote and laughing as they changed channels. Snape shook his head sadly and kissed her forehead wearily.

“Hermione,” he whispered, “he’s gone. The man that did this to you is gone. Can nothing shake you from this?” Hermione looked at him, struggling to concentrate on his words, but failing understand. She saw his frown and began to sniffle, and Snape soon realised she was crying. She had responded to his words. His eyes widened and he stroked her cheek.

“Hermione, don’t cry,” he said softly, “Hermione I love you, do you understand what I’m saying? I love you.” She looked up at him like a nervous rabbit, her brown eyes wide but no longer crying. She made a strange noise, a mew, as he stroked her cheek, and her rabid, tearful breathing began to cease. Severus couldn’t suppress a strange sense of relief and excitement. She was learning, she had actually learned something, to recognise simple emotions.

“Hermione,” he whispered, “It’s me, its Severus, the old bat, the cold bastard, the potions tosser, Snivellus! Does this make any sense to you?” He pleaded with her, his voice growing in desperation. She shied away from his raised voice, but giggled at his old nicknames, but frowned at the last one. She began to shake her head like a confused baby.

“Snivellus,” she said with the same pout, “No, not Snivellus,” she said with a fractured, almost bad tempered, childlike tone. Snape didn’t understand what had just happened, but had never felt such joy. She had recognised something, meaning her mind had improved. He pulled her into a tight hug, his eyes full of tears.

“No Hermione,” he whispered, “not Snivellus.” She smiled in a wide, childlike way, showing him her perfect white teeth. He smiled a watery smile and cupped her face.

“You’ll get better,” he whispered, “I promise I’ll make you better.” He had to tell Potter, he needed to give the boy some hope, but for now, for now all he wanted to do was hold Hermione as she giggled in his arms.


Ginny was sat in Grimmald Place on the same day as Malfoy’s funeral. Harry had returned home the day he had seen Hermione and locked himself in his bedroom, refusing to come down. He had stayed there until Malfoy’s funeral a week later, when he had ventured out. He looked awful. Pale, malnourished and tired. His entire body seemed to be calling out for the sleep that his mind had been denying him. Ginny suspected that he hadn’t slept since he been back, and when she approached him, hoping to hug him, he turned away sadly to watch the television screen.

“Honey,” she whispered softly, “aren’t you going to talk to me again?” He didn’t look at her, but spoke softly.

“He was never punished,” Harry sighed, “for ruining her mind, he simply ended his life. He never got the kiss.” Ginny sighed and went to him, stroking his hair softly. He didn’t draw away, but he didn’t lean into her. He merely sat watching the television passively. When the news had finished, he stood up and turned to face his lover.

“I want so much for revenge, and I have no one to direct this anger at,” he whispered to her. Ginny nodded, her red hair falling over her face.

“I want it too,” she whispered, “I want nothing more than to avenge Hermione’s attack, but we can’t go on carrying this hate and isolating ourselves.” Harry looked away and Ginny extended her hand, hoping to touch Harry’s cheek, but he turned away again, the simple action ripping Ginny’s heart out.

“I love you,” she pleaded with him softly, desperately, “and I wish you loved me too.”

“I’ll be upstairs,” he said, in a distant rather than a cold tone, “there’s something I need to do.” Ginny sighed and looked away as he went upstairs, not turning back to look at her.



An hour passed of Ginny listening to Harry cry loudly upstairs. She didn’t know what to do, so she simply paced the kitchen, her head in her hands. She was frustrated and hopelessly unhappy. She slammed her hand down on the table and burst into tears.

“Ginny?” Ginny looked up and saw Remus standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He had returned to collect the last of his things. After the incident with Hermione, Harry and the others had asked him to leave, and he had obliged. He had come today to collect his things. He had two bags beside him, shabby and old, with someone else’s initials written in gold letters. Ginny turned to look at him and quickly wiped her eyes quickly.

“Are you done Remus?” she asked, trying to regain the control in her voice.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “I’ve done so much wrong, and I wish, for your sake, I could make it better.” She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to calm herself.

“Everyone apologises, but no one can make it better,” she said softly, “so what’s the point of the apologies?” She turned away from him and broke down into floods of tears before she could stop herself.

“I’ve cried so many bloody tears!” she said, angry at herself, “and they just don’t stop. They don’t make the pain go away, or bring Harry back, or restore Hermione’s mind, or still Snape’s pain. That’s what’s makes it so much worse!” Remus could do nothing but stand there, looking at Ginny and the pain he was responsible for.

“Tell me anything you want me to do to make this better,” he whispered, “and I’ll do it. All I want is to make this all go away.” Ginny sneered.

“Well it’s a shame time turner’s haven’t been outlawed then isn’t it,” she hissed angrily, prepared to launch into a furious argument when she heard Harry’s crying stop abruptly. Ginny looked up before seizing her chance. She pushed past Remus and ran upstairs, hoping that he would greet her with open arms. She knocked on the door, and when she received no reply she tried to open the door. It was locked, and she suddenly panicked.

“Harry?” she cried, pushing at the door before drawing her wand, casting alohamora as quickly as she could. She pushed open the door and nearly vomited at the sight before her. Harry was hanging from the ceiling, a rope around his throat, a blank expression on his face. She cried out and ran to him, grabbing his ankles and pushing him up, trying to loosen the knot. She cried loudly for help, reassurance washing over her as she felt Harry’s skin was still warm. Tears streamed down her face as she screamed for help.

“What’s wrong?” Ginny heard Remus call as he ran up the stairs to her. He stood in the doorway for a moment, his eyes wide, before he ran to help Ginny. He drew his wand and cut the rope around Harry’s throat. The boy fell into Remus’s arms, and Remus lowered him to the ground, stroking the boy’s pale cheeks.

“Harry, please, no,” he whispered desperately, “why did you not come to us!” He began to pound the boy’s chest, desperate to resuscitate him as Ginny stroked his face, tears pouring from her eyes. Minutes passed but Remus persisted, and as Ginny drew away, preparing to burst into a wave of mourning tears, she heard the familiar spluttering of Harry. She looked up, her eyes red, to see Harry’s body convulsing with coughing. Remus pulled him into a tight hug, tears in his own eyes, and Ginny scrambled forwards to hug him also.

“Harry,” she cried desperately, “Harry I love you so much, why did you do it?” Harry trembled in his lover’s arms.

“I can’t bear it,” he whispered, “I simply can’t bear to see her like that. And I don’t know what to do.” He looked up at Ginny, who could do nothing but shake her head tearfully.

DISCLAIMER: NONE OF THIS BELONGS TO ME. I JUST CREATED THE PLOT!