Capítulo 28: Chapter 28
In all the dreams she'd had, Harry had been younger than John was now. What was Harry doing now? Was he still alive? Was he still living that life? Was this a cry for help? Was she supposed to help him?
She trembled. What could she do? What was she supposed to do?
And John? Did he even know he had a brother?
She suddenly realised she hadn't thought of John as 'The-Boy-Who-Lived' for ages.
She sucked her breath in. Her eyes widened.
John wasn't The-Boy-Who-Lived. Harry was.
Ginny walked into the muggle greengrocer of Ottery St Catchpole.
"Ginny, can you get the bread and milk while I go pick vegetables?"
"Yes, Mum." She walked to the back of the shop and inspected several loaves before picking one up and placing it in the wicker basket she carried.
Ginny looked up.
John Potter was standing at the far end of an aisle looking at jam.
Weird, what was he doing here?
She'd had mixed feelings about John in the last few weeks and wasn't keen to speak to him at the moment.
John picked up a jar and turned his head as he rounded the aisle corner.
Ginny gasped.
On his forehead was an inflamed lightning bolt shaped scar.
"Harry?"
She ran to the end of the aisle and bolted around the corner.
The aisle was empty.
Ginny stood in what had to be the Hogwarts great hall. Hundreds of students stood in rows, all dressed in black. They all looked serious. Some were crying.
"We are gathered here today to pay our last respects to Ginevra Molly Weasley, a young witch snatched from us long before her time."
What?
"Ginny epitomised the qualities of her house and family. We are unlikely to see such an outstanding example of bravery and courage in one so young in a long long time."
No. No. No.
She ran to the front of the hall and stared in horror at the picture sitting, surrounded by flowers, on top of a coffin. Words washed over her, but she didn't hear anything being said. The coffin and photo filled her world, freezing her blood, shortening her breath, decrying all that was fair and just in the world. Her image, looking a few years older, beamed happily in the arms of John Potter.
She looked around the hall, seeking John's face, but couldn't find it.
Wait. There. In Slytherin house? No, that wasn't John. Standing all by himself, a circle of isolation surrounding him as though he were contagious, was Harry, telltale scar clear for all to see.
She turned again to look at the coffin and, despite being a dream, her knees gave out.
What had happened? This was the future? She was going to die?
The dream continued to sweep forward. Ten minutes? Thirty minutes? She didn't pay any attention.
She couldn't think.
Then her world faded to black.
…
And faded back a few moments later.
Ginny watched You-Know-Who resurrect in a graveyard.
She watched John try, and fail, to duel You-Know-Who in the ministry of magic atrium.
She watched Ron and a brown haired witch being tortured by You-Know-Who in a large manor house, their screams of terror and pain forcing their way into her head.
The tremors started again, she couldn't take this any more, she just wanted out. Out. Out! Please!
Don't worry. You are okay. You are safe. You are safe.
The tremors subsided, her breathing slowed.
It was just a dream. It couldn't hurt her. It hadn't happened yet.
She watched an older Luna Lovegood throw herself in front of a killing curse aimed at John.
She watched John walk towards You-Know-Who in a forest, as though taking a stroll in the gardens.
"Go ahead," he said. "Death will not allow your victory. I will defeat you."
"Avada Kedavra."
She watched hundreds of witches and wizards being rounded up, ripped from their families, mothers from daughters, husbands from wives, brothers from sisters, and executed in mass killings, or else enslaved, forced to serve their new master's every menial or depraved whim.
She watched all this on the verge of panic, but every time she thought she couldn't take any more, calmness flooded her body.
Her world faded to black again…
…
…And faded back in a prison cell. A pile of dirty rags sat in a corner.
Nothing happened.
At least no one was being killed or tortured here.
.
.
.
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