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SIYE Time:20:27 on 28th March 2024
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Finding Us
By Kezzabear

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Category: Alternate Universe
Characters:Harry/Ginny
Genres: General
Warnings: Sexual Situations
Story is Complete
Rating: PG-13
Reviews: 377
Summary: Ginny Weasley did not bring her wand anywhere anymore. There wasn’t any point ... Harry Potter didn’t really live anywhere. He hadn’t really lived since Ginny Weasley walked out of his life.
Hitcount: Story Total: 118178; Chapter Total: 12006
Awards: View Trophy Room




Author's Notes:
Well, I finally finished the third draft of my first quarter of my thesis. To celebrate I am posting the next chapter of this fic. If you are wondering where Rebuilding Life is - it's coming. My beta has it and she's swamped.

Please enjoy this in the meantime :)




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If there was one thing Ginny Weasley couldn’t stand it was Little Bobby Nailor. If there was one thing Little Bobby Nailor couldn’t stand it was Ginny Weasley. It was a mutual loathing, fuelled by mud splatters, newspaper routes and pharmacology. It wasn’t that Ginny ordered a newspaper (because she was completely uninterested in the news) or that Bobby cared about the mud puddle on the edge of the garden outside Ginny’s tiny cottage (because Little Bobby Nailor didn’t care about getting dirty). The problem was that Bobby liked to spray the mud every time he rode past on Friday afternoon.

And he always rode past as Ginny was getting home from work.

Ginny suspected he did it because of the day she sold his mother that disgusting pink medicine. None of the other children hated her, no matter how much disgusting pink (or red, or green) medicine she sold their mothers. Ginny suspected Little Bobby Nailor had a pact with the devil. Ginny sighed as she stared down at her mud splattered uniform. Once upon a time she could have taken care of this with one wave of her wand (and given Bobby a nice surprise as well) now she had to go and try to find something that actually removed stains. It was hard when Old Mrs Watson at the corner shop was so deaf. Ginny really hadn’t asked for navy blue dye.

It wouldn’t have mattered except her work uniform was white.

Still it served her right for not reading the labels properly. And trying to run an electric washing machine. And doing it in the dark because she didn’t realise there was a big electric button on the wall of the laundromat that would give her light. Navy blue streaked knickers and bras were really very practical.

It wasn’t like anyone ever saw them.

Of course Phillip Norsebury had tried. But he’d also tried to make her go on a bus to the cinema in Westbury. And no one who tried to make Ginny go on a bus could possibly be up to any good. Cars she could come at (Nathaniel Winters had a really nice black Bentley even though he was a jerk) and trains were fair game (not that this little poky hamlet had a train station) but buses were from the devil.

Just like Little Bobby Nailor.

Normally when she was splattered with mud Ginny would go inside immediately because the easiest way to wash her uniform was straight away in the wash tub and then through the mangle (which Mr Fogarty at the antique store had been very amused that she’d bought). Today was … different. Ginny didn’t know why but she stood on the footpath, outside her little cottage for a moment and looked down the street. There was no one there.

Unless you counted Mrs Figg who was shaking her bathmat on the front porch. Mrs Figg was always doing odd things like that. One day she came into the pharmacy carrying three cans of cat food in a string bag and asked for the flu. Most people didn’t ask for the flu, they didn’t want it. It was an acknowledged fact that Mrs Figg was more than slightly crazy.

She’d been seen talking to her cats.

Ginny wasn’t sure how many cats the woman had. It might have been as many as twenty but was more probably five. One of them even looked at her funny. It reminded Ginny of Crookshanks. Sometimes it seemed like Mrs Figg had a fire going in the middle of summer. Ginny supposed that her joints ached. She did fill a lot of prescriptions for arthritis medication. Still it was curious when the smoke from Mrs Figg’s chimney blew in circles, or looked slightly green. But because witches don’t take Muggle arthritis medication Ginny knew she was just seeing things that weren’t there.

Mrs Figg was no more magical than Ginny Weasley.

And Ginny Weasley wasn’t magical at all anymore. She left all that behind. It was easier to pretend she wasn’t even Ginny Weasley and that’s why she didn’t dress like Ginny Weasley anymore. And she didn’t wear her hair like Ginny Weasley anymore. And she didn’t play Quidditch like Ginny Weasley anymore (although she did once try ten-pin bowling with Neil Sanders). And she didn’t laugh like Ginny Weasley anymore.

She didn’t laugh at much of anything.

Ginny Weasley did a lot of thinking though. She thought about how sad her mother looked every time she came to visit. She’d leave treacle tart and do the dusting with her wand when she thought Ginny wasn’t looking. Ginny thought about how delighted her father was with all the batteries she collected for him. And when Mavis from next door blew up her kettle and Ginny saved the plug, Ginny thought she hadn’t seen her father so happy since the day she was accepted to play for the Harpies.

She thought about how she loved flying and Muggles couldn’t do that unless they got in an airyplane. Just like Ginny now. She thought about how Gwyneth from the bakery swept the footpath every morning with a broom that looked like Harry’s old Firebolt.

And she thought about Harry Potter a lot.

************************

If there was one thing that Harry Potter couldn’t stand it was eating stale cake in Mrs Figg’s stuffy sitting room. He hadn’t been able to stand it when he was a child and he was barely able to stand it now. But he felt like he owed her. So he visited every week, Flooing in, and out again in one afternoon.

It wasn’t like he had anything better to do.

The fruit cake was no better than the chocolate cake. And her house still smelled like cabbages. And cats. And those musty old moth balls that made all old ladies smell the same. He could usually pretend to eat a bite, feed most of it to the old Kneazle that looked like Crookshanks and leave within a few minutes. He never even had to step outside.

Ron used to tease him that the only date he ever had was with Mrs Figg. Until Harry punched him in the nose. Hermione had scolded them both for getting into a fight and Molly Weasley had tutted at the as she bandaged Harry’s fingers and mended Ron’s nose (and Harry didn’t tell anyone that he’d taken Abigail Steingeld to dinner once). Ron stopped teasing him about his non existent love life (and Abigail Steingeld met Steve Parry and never looked at Harry again). Now Harry went to Mrs Figg’s every Friday and sat next to the little window with the net curtains and watched the little fat kid deliver his newspapers.

It always made him wonder that the little blonde down the street never got angry when he splashed her with mud.

Ginny Weasley would have gotten angry. She would have hexed the little fat kid (or his bicycle, she wouldn’t have been fussy). But this girl never did. She always shuffled inside with her head bowed while the mud dripped off the bottom of her skirt. Ginny Weasley would never wear a skirt either. Nor did she have blonde hair.

So why did she always remind him of Ginny Weasley?

Harry hadn’t seen Ginny Weasley for years. Not since she folded her Quidditch uniform and put it in the bottom drawer of her dresser and left The Burrow. Not since she put her wand on the kitchen table and left The Burrow. Not since she stashed her broomstick at the back of the broom shed and left The Burrow. Not since she closed the garden gate and left The Burrow behind.

And Harry.

Harry Potter didn’t like being left behind very much. But he was used to it. His mum and dad left him behind. But he’d forgiven them for that — they didn’t want to. Dudley always used to leave him behind — but he was glad about that. Ron and Hermione got married and left him behind. They didn’t mean to (and Harry never told them they did that). Luna started travelling the world and left him behind — but he didn’t believe in Crumple Horned Snorcacks anyway. Neville still came around - because Neville didn’t know how to leave anyone behind.

Harry wanted to leave Mrs Figg and her cake behind. But he didn’t. He fed the rest of his cake to the Kneazle that looked like Crookshanks and watched Mrs Figg shaking out her bathmat. Harry didn’t know anyone else that shook out their bathmat. Or anyone who shook floor coverings out on the front porch. But he didn’t find it odd that Mrs Figg did it. She did a lot of odd things these days — including trying to make him run errands for her to the pharmacy.

But Harry drew the line at buying haemorrhoid cream for Mrs Figg.

The blonde girl was moving. And not towards her own door. Towards Mrs Figg’s door. Towards Harry. She’d never done that before. Harry leant towards the window, watching as the shapely legs walked slowly towards Mrs Figg’s porch. Her pharmacy uniform was dripping mud the way Ginny’s Quidditch uniform did after a match. Her hands clutched her handbag the way Ginny clutched her wand and her eyes looked up at Mrs Figg the way that Ginny’s eyes looked up at Harry when she asked him to pass the salt.

Harry dropped his cake fork and the plate shattered into a million pieces as it fell from his nerveless fingers.
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