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And Every Day is a Start | ||||
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Category: Post-DH/PM Characters:None Genres: None Warnings: None Story is Complete Rating: PG-13 Reviews: 21 Summary: "My marriage is falling apart for no apparent reason," she declares. Ginny Potter loves her husband, loves her children, and loves her life. At least, she used to. But things are changing, and she's not sure why. Hitcount: Story Total: 8123 Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work. |
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I kept falling over, I kept looking backward, I went broke believing, That the simple should be hard. All we are, we are, All we are, we are, And every day is a start of something beautiful. i. She steps out of the bath and stands there for a moment, looking at herself in the mirror. "Still gorgeous, dear," the mirror murmurs sleepily. It is, after all, only six in the morning. "Never fear," it adds helpfully. Ginny doesn't pay it any mind. She turns to the side, her eyes raking over her own image until the steam from the bath becomes enough to curl around her shoulders and fog the mirror. She sighs, wraps herself in a towel, and greets the day. It's a Tuesday, and it's like every other day of her life. She wakes early, goes for a jog around the neighbourhood, takes a bath, and is starting breakfast when she hears Harry stumbling around upstairs, taking his own bath. They read the paper together as they eat, exchanging a few exclamations and comments over the latest stories. Then it's a simple kiss and goodbye, and he's left for work. A few minutes later, she leaves for her own work. Some days are different. Some days there are letters from their children or Ron needs to talk to Harry through the Floo now or there's an early game of Quidditch that Ginny listens to on the fancy wireless Harry bought her for her thirtieth birthday. Still, most mornings aren't varied. It's a familiar pattern, their mornings – and their afternoons and evenings and days. Her work never varies, dinner is the same affair it always is, with good food and simple conversation about their work and friends and children, and while some nights they watch Muggle movies and other nights they fall asleep reading side by side, it's always simple and familiar. It's their life. And Ginny's sick of it. ii. Hermione's head snaps to attention at Ginny's soft, courtesy knock on the doorframe of her office at the Ministry. Hermione smiles. "Was I expecting you?" she asks, smiling. "No," Ginny assures, "I was hoping I could take you out for lunch, though." "That's a lovely thought," Hermione replies, "but I'm afraid I'm buried under paperwork today. I was going to eat when I had a spare minute." She makes an apologetic face, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her robe. Ginny nods and starts to leave. She stops herself. She raises her eyes resolutely. "I really need to talk with you," she says. "Please." Hermione must see the barely veiled desperation on Ginny's face, because she agrees. Half an hour later, they've settled comfortably into a booth at a Muggle diner a few blocks from the visitor's entrance of the Ministry. They've discussed mundane things up until then, but now that Hermione sits, stirring her tea and having ordered her lunch, she looks across the table expectantly at Ginny. "It's about Harry," Ginny says. "About Harry and me. Us. Our relationship." The barest trace of a frown wrinkles Hermione's forehead. "Is something the matter?" "Yes," Ginny whispers, feeling guilty even for admitting it. But she can't go on like this anymore – she won't go on like this anymore – and Hermione is really the only person she can think to talk to. "The problem is . . . I don't know what's wrong. But something is." "I'm not sure I understand," Hermione says hesitantly. "Neither do I," Ginny replies. "But I'm . . . I know this sounds immature and silly, but I'm bored, Hermione. Our relationship used to be passionate and fiery and every day of our life together was another adventure, and now its just . . . routine." She sighs heavily, having finally voiced the thoughts that torture her day-in and day-out. Hermione takes her time carefully answering. "I think that's human nature," she says. "People don't stay young and fiery their whole lives. We're meant to grow up and grow older and come to a peace with our lives. It's perfectly normal." "It might be normal, but its not right," Ginny protests. "I can't stand it anymore. The kids are at school living their own lives, and for so long I looked forward to the day that – I mean, I love my kids, you know that – but I was so eager for the day when it was just Harry and I again, starting out on the next adventure, but . . . it never happened." "Ginny," Hermione murmurs. "I –" "We haven't had sex," Ginny blurts, "in a really long time, I mean." "I see," Hermione says clinically. "Well, how long has it been?" Ginny glances down at her fingers. She has discussed sex many times with Hermione in the past. In fact, besides a single conversation with her mum and one with Lily, Hermione is the only woman Ginny has talked to about it. At that moment, however, she feels a little mortification. "It can't have been too terribly long," Hermione encourages. "You and Harry are a very . . . amorous couple. You always have been." "Exactly!" Ginny exclaims. "We used to go at it like rabbits!" A delicate pink rises in Hermione's cheeks, despite the fact that she's forty-three years old. "And now . . . we don't. It's been . . .," she swallows thickly and looked down at her tea, "three weeks." She chances a look up at Hermione, who slowly begins to smile. "That's it?" "That's a long time!" Ginny says, wide-eyed. "Ginny," Hermione chuckles softly, "that's not so long for some. You went longer than that when Jamie, Al, and Lily were little." "Yes, but that's because they were little, because I was pregnant and nursing and then they were all wall-climbing, curtain-setting-on-fire, Christmas tree-pulling down rugrats. There was a reason. And trust me, we usually made time. But what's stopping us now?" She pauses. "I think . . . I think I'm old, Hermione." Hermione laughs outright. "If you're implying that Harry isn't interested in you that way any more, then you're not only old, you're senile." Ginny glares at her. "It's not just that we don't . . . we don't talk, either. Not really." Hermione tilts her head in sympathy. "Okay, I understand what you're saying. You and Harry are in a rut. It happens to everyone. But you love him, don't you?" "Of course," Ginny assures. "And you don't want to leave him?" "Leave him?" Ginny repeats, outraged. "I could never leave him!" "Then you've simply got to trek onward," Hermione says. "Every marriage has ups and downs, I promise." Ginny nods, not sure whether or not she believes Hermione. She does believe that marriages go through ups and downs and ruts, but her marriage isn't supposed to be like all those other marriages. The waitress arrives with their meals, and its quiet for a few minutes. "Feel any better?" Hermione asks. "I suppose," Ginny lies. She pours a liberal amount of salt on her salad, a habit that always makes Harry smile and shake his head. She looks up at Hermione. "Could I ask you one more question, though?" "Please." "When was the last time you and Ron had sex?" Hermione chokes on her tea. iii. "I think we should go on a trip," Ginny announces at dinner. Harry's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. He glances across the table at her. "What?" "A vacation," she says. "Somewhere we've never been. We went to Australia for our honeymoon, and we've been all over Europe and even to Africa, but . . . how about California, in the States? We've never been there before. We could take a plane out there next week and we could rent a car and –" "We can't go to California next week," Harry interrupts, lowering his fork back to his plate. "Why not?" "Because," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Because why?" she insists. "Because we've got jobs. Because I need to announce I'm taking a week off months in advance, and –" "How much could they possibly miss you for one week?" Ginny presses. She's not going to give in. Going to California would be the perfect way to pump life back into their relationship. "Ginny," he says slowly, "I'm the Head of the Auror department." She rolls her eyes. "I have a job, too, and I'd be missed if I left, but I could still make it work." She pauses, trying to force his hand. "You can, too." He sighs. "I really don't think it'll work, Ginny. Maybe some time next Spring. I'll talk to my secretary about a week I could take off, okay?" She feels like a petulant child being appeased. It makes her angry. She knows she's being immature, she knows she is acting like a petulant child, but she can't help it. "Don't bother," she snaps, and she storms out of the kitchen. "Ginny," he calls, frustration evident in his voice. She ignores him, stalking up the stairs and then slamming the door to their bedroom shut. She doesn't click the lock until she can hear Harry on the stairs, following after her. She knows he heard the lock. She waits for him to knock on the door, asking to be let in, apologising for something he doesn't understand. Instead she hears his heavy footsteps disappear back down the stairs. Something inside her twists. Twenty years ago, he would have spent the rest of the night knocking on her door, begging to be let in. She sinks to the ground. She makes sure to unlock the door before she slips into bed. She won't make him sleep on the couch. An hour later, he enters the dark room. She pretends to be asleep. "I cleaned up the dishes," he says. She doesn't answer. "You asleep?" he whispers. Still, no answer. He shuffles around, undressing and preparing for bed. He places something on her bedside table and then leans down, hesitating as his face hovers over hers, and presses a kiss to her forehead. He circles the bed to his side and climbs in. Only when she's sure he can't see her does she open her eyes. He's put a vase of fresh flowers by her bedside. He must have gone out and bought them. She bites her lip and then turns in the bed, reaching for him. "I'm sorry," he whispers into her skin as he wraps his arms around her. "I know." He falls asleep like that, his face pressed into her hair, his arm securely around her waist, his warmth slipping into her. She really does love him more than anyone or anything in the world. But it doesn't fix anything. iv. On Sunday, she goes grocery shopping. She picks up the basics: flour, eggs, milk, those chips Harry loves, shampoo, etcetera, and she spends a good twenty minutes working her way through James's messy scrawl for the items he requested in his last letter. At the checkout, she grins at the sight of a little girl with bouncy blonde curls begging her mother for just one sweet. It reminds her of a little Lily, and she wishes she could go back in time to when her children were little, to when they needed her for more than supplies. There's a man behind her in line, and when she almost forgets the milk in the bottom of her cart, he points it out to her, smiling kindly. He's a Muggle – she is in a Muggle grocery – and he's probably in his mid-thirties, his brown hair thick and his face clean-shaven. She strikes up a conversation, an easy task for her, and it continues out to the parking lot when he helps her carry her bags. She doesn't realise he's flirting with her until he asks her to coffee. "Oh, I'm – I'd love to, but you – I'm married," she says, shamefully inarticulate as she holds up her left hand. He's surprised. "Well, that's a little disappointing," he replies, giving a small smile. "He's a lucky man. It was nice to meet you, though." "You, too," she murmurs, watching him walk away. She doesn't feel guilty. She feels interesting and attractive and good. And when she recognises that feeling, recognises the fluttering warmth inside her chest, that's when she feels guilty. v. She doesn't work on Wednesdays. She's not sure why she doesn't, not since the kids are all at school and no one needs her home in the middle of the week, but old habits die hard. Besides, she likes having a day in the week to clean up the house and take care of old business and bills and letters. But she's going to make the most of this particular Wednesday, make more of it than she has in months. Feeling daring, she puts on the most alluring knickers she can find in her closet, pulls her hair from its bun, letting it curl down past her shoulders, (she rarely wears it down anymore, despite how much Harry loves it down), and Apparates to the Ministry. Barely ten minutes later, she's at his office. His new secretary is younger than any of the others, with stylish blonde hair and bright pink lips. "Is Harry in a meeting?" she asks. "No, ma'am," the girl answers. "But if you'd like to talk to him, you'll need to schedule an appointment." Ginny stares for a moment. "I don't think so," she replies. And she makes a beeline for Harry's office door. The secretary stands up, starting to protest, but Ginny is undeterred. She bangs on the door before bursting in. Harry's by himself, hassled and surrounded by parchment. He's startled at her arrival, but he smiles at the sight of her. "I'm sorry, Mr. Potter," the secretary says as Ginny enters the office without hesitating and throws her purse on the desk. "I tried to stop her." Harry frowns, confused. "Apparently I was supposed to make an appointment," Ginny tells him, crossing her arms over her chest. "She doesn't know who I am." "She's new," he says, blushing a little under her disapproving stare. "Sadie," he addresses the girl, "this is Ginny. My wife." The secretary's eyes go wide. But she doesn't leave. Ginny decides to ignore her. "We need to talk," she tells her husband. "Right now?" "Yes." "But I'm –" "Now, Harry." He doesn't make any more protests. "Okay," he agrees, closing an accounting book on his desk and shuffling a few sheets of parchment. Ginny glances at the secretary. "You can leave," she says. The girl nods and slowly backs away, closing the door behind her. But Ginny doesn't miss the girl's last, soft glance at Harry. Her chest burns. Harry would never cheat on her, she knows that with certainty, but she's never liked the number of women who would be more than willing to help him cheat were he that type of man. She turns back to Harry. "What's the matter?" he asks worriedly. She kicks off her shoes. He frowns. "What're –?" She pushes his chair – and him in it – back from the desk, and climbs onto his lap, her skirt riding up her thigh as she straddles him. "Ginny," he begins. She silences him with a kiss. He's unresponsive at first, but Harry was never one to resist her for long: a fraction of an instant later, he returns the kiss hotly, his hands skimming over her thighs and up her back before finally twisting in her hair. She's not sure when he unbuttons her shirt and pushes it off her shoulders so it hangs at her elbows, but it doesn't matter. He only pulls away breathlessly when her fingers begin to undo his belt. "We can't do this here," he pants. "Someone could walk in at any minute. And I have work to do." "I really don't care," she replies succinctly. "I need this." Her voice softens. "We need this." His expression is pained. "Can't it wait until tonight, at home?" She can't explain the feeling in her stomach at that moment, the sickening swirl of growing old and growing apart and losing what made them them. But it makes her hands tremble. "Sure," she mutters, pulling away from him and refusing to meet his gaze as she steps back unsteadily onto her feet. "Ginny," he says. He's always pleading her name like that, but it doesn't do either of them any good. She starts to button her shirt, aware that her neck is burning. It's only when she's bent over and trying to shove her feet into her heels that she feels his hands on her hips. She straightens up, her back to his chest. "I changed my mind," he murmurs into her neck, his hands snaking around her stomach and then trailing upwards to her breasts. But she's stubborn. "Why's that?" she demands, trying to be spiteful. "Because . . . your bum was taunting me." She snorts at his words, at the epitome of Harry, and all of the anger and hurt and the little, tiny bit of humiliation melts into nothing as she spins in his arms, his lips latching onto her neck and sucking at her pulse point. This time, he doesn't stop her when her small hands reach for his belt buckle. When she leaves his office a little while later, the new, young, attractive secretary is pale-faced and speechless. Ginny catches her gaze, winking, and Sadie looks away in an instant, as if caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Ginny smirks to herself. It had definitely been a good idea not to use the silencing charm. vi. "Dear Mum, I'm in love. His name is Lucas Tanner, and he's tall and he has this curly brown hair that makes my toes curl and he has the bluest eyes you've ever seen. He's in the year above me. He plays Quidditch, too, as a Keeper for Ravenclaw. He's really good, probably the best reflexes on the team. The only problem is that he doesn't know I exist. But don't worry: I'm working on it! Thanks for the snacks you sent me. And, yes, Al is still mooning over that Gryffindor girl I pointed out to you at the train station. He thinks I don't notice. Yeah right! He's SO obvious. Even James knows, and he told me to say that you better tease Al mercilessly over break like you did when James started dating Eloise. Tell Daddy thank you for the new chaser gloves. I love you, Love, Lily She reads her daughter's letter a third time, her mind spinning backwards to the times when she was so mad for Harry, when she mooned over him, as her daughter would say. For the longest time, he didn't even know she existed; at least, he didn't know she existed as more than Ron's little sister. It makes her smile simply to think about how the tide turned. But that was a long time ago. She glances at her husband, slowly chewing the last of his bacon as his eyes skim the front page of the Daily Prophet. Little has changed in their relationship since her talk with Hermione, despite sex on his desk at two in the afternoon. There's still something missing between them, something that disappeared so slowly she hadn't even realised until it was entirely gone. She reads the letter a fourth time. Harry stands, stretching. "I'd best be off. Have a good day." She nods, mustering a smile as he leans over her and presses a kiss to her lips. "See you tonight." "Mmm," she replies automatically. He leaves. She knows the past might have a falsely rosy glow to it, but at that moment, she can't be bothered to care. She slumps in her seat, wishing she were thirteen again, like Lily. vii. There's a Ministry party on Saturday night, and Harry is unable to worm his way out of it. Ginny doesn't really mind; the parties have never bothered her as much as they have Harry. It's the annual Ministry of Magic Muggle Bow-Tie Ball, the Ministry's attempt to pay tribute to the Muggle world by having everyone dress as Muggles. In the seven years since its inception, Ginny has always enjoyed seeing the get-up snooty Ministry officials manage to put together. But Harry only tells her of the event two days in advance, and she decides to try and wear an old Muggle party dress she wore in her twenties. It doesn't fit . . . at all. Her breasts never lost the weight of pregnancy, her thighs and arms are thicker, and her stomach is no longer anything close to the flat, taut plane it once was. When Harry arrives home late on Friday, he finds her curled up on the floor of the loo, the dress viciously discarded as she sits in nothing but her underwear, glaring at the wall with teary eyes. "What's wrong?" he immediately asks. "What's wrong is I'm old." He blinks at her blankly. "So?" She glares at him. "So?" she echoes. "So, I don't want to be old!" "Yeah," he says, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck, "but you're only a little past forty. That's not really old." She stares down at the bathroom tiles. "It's old enough," she mutters. It's quiet. "Why does it matter?" he finally asks. Incredulous, she gazes up at him. "You're still Ginny." He looks so sincere as he stares down at her, his befuddlement over her frustration obvious. "And you know I'll still love you when you are actually old and ugly, right?" "But that doesn't mean I want to grow old and ugly!" she cries. He crouches down. "You won't ever grow ugly," he tells her gently. "Not as far as I'm concerned. You're certainly not now." His eyes flicker down her body and then bounce up to her face with a kind of guilt. It makes her smile despite herself. "And you're not old, Ginny. You've got years – decades – left in your life." She sighs. "I know," she murmurs. "I do. But I can't help but feeling . . . something's off." "What do you mean?" "Between us," she clarifies, confessing the thoughts that have plagued her for months. "Something's off. Don't you feel it?" He shakes his head slowly. "I mean, aren't you sick of just . . . the same old, same old everyday? Aren't you sick of sleeping, eating, and working? Don't you want to do something exciting and different and . . . we used to be fun, Harry! And now . . . don't you want more than this?" "All I've ever wanted is you," he answers, and she can see the glimmer of hurt in his expression. She closes her eyes and sucks in a deep breath. She's not trying to hurt him. He doesn't understand. "All I've ever wanted is a family, and you gave that to me, and I – I like having a routine and living out a normal life with you." "Harry," she says, not sure what to tell him. "I didn't realise that wasn't good enough for you anymore." From someone else, it would have been a snide comment. From him, it was simply an open, honest, sad statement. "That's not what I'm trying to say," she protests, her eyes pleading for his understanding. But he's standing, not meeting her gaze. "'S okay," he assures. "I'm just going to . . . I told Ms. Peterson I would feed her dog while she visits her grandson in Bristol. I'll be back in a few minutes." He's been gone for well over ten minutes before she lumbers tiredly to her feet. She glances at the mirror. "Really," the mirror says, "you've nothing to cry about. Wipe your tears. You look a fright." She ignores the mirror, stepping out of the loo. She needs to dress, to cook dinner, to apologise to Harry. But for what? She stops in her tracks at the sight of the bed. There's a large, white box on it, and she knows what it'll be even as her shaking hands open it. Inside lies a gorgeous blue dress with a full skirt and scoop neck. It probably cost a ridiculous amount of money, but that has never stopped Harry before. And the boy has good tastes, always has. She fingers the gauzy material, feeling her tears well up. She refuses to cry. She puts the dress on. "Now, that's a dress," the mirror whistles. "What did I say? Beautiful as always, dear." It isn't until Ginny finds the matching diamond necklace and earrings Harry also bought her that she really starts to tear up. He's never been good at saying I love you, but he's also been perfect at showing it; the whisper I love you has always been clear in the way he looks at her and touches her and splurges on the perfect gifts for her. He's always loved her, and he still does. Why isn't that good enough anymore? viii. "So. Talk." She doesn't. She stares at the blurry reflection of her freckled face in the mirror top of the table. Her fingers trace a water stain circle. George never was one for coasters. "Ginny," George presses, so much in that one single word. "My marriage is falling apart for no apparent reason," she declares, slumping in the couch in his front room. She can hear Angelina cleaning up the dishes in the kitchen. The older woman had insisted she would do the clean up by herself, and George and Ginny could talk. Angelina always was a perceptive person. "That's depressing," George replies. She glares at him. "I'm serious." "So am I. Look, you and Harry love each other, yeah?" "Yes," she says firmly. "Then deal with the rest." "That's the worst advice I've ever heard!" "I beg your pardon," he cries, clapping his hand over his chest. "It's not even actual advice. 'Deal with the rest' really doesn't help me, beloved brother dearest." He sighs, and she can see his face grow pensive. "Why don't you talk to Harry?" he suggests. "I tried. He didn't understand . . . he thought I was saying that he wasn't good enough. It's not even about him!" She knows she's not making sense, but that's half the problem, really. "If it's not about him, then what in Godric's name is it about?" "It's about the fact that my life is . . . boring. I'm old and predictable and boring, three things I've never wanted to be." "Not to give sage and helpful advice repeated over many moons by many such great minds as myself," he replies, "but didn't you spend most of your childhood trying to act older than you are? Isn't this a case of the grass is always greener?" She doesn't answer. "Ginny, what is it you loved most about being young? Was it fighting evil forces that threatened to destroy our lives and family and kept us all worrying about who would crop up dead next?" "Don't be crass," she says sullenly. "Well?" he pushes. "I don't know . . . I liked getting all dressed up for Harry. I liked the thrill of a good match. I liked date nights that were complete disasters. I liked . . . dreaming about the future and what'll happen next and. . . ." "Ginny," George says slowly, "you can still have all that. You can still dress up for Harry and . . . all of that. If you ask me, growing out of the insecurity of being a teenager is a good thing. Being a teenager is great, sure, but who would want to be that their whole life?" "It's not . . . I don't wish I were a teenager, I just. . . ." She sighs. She can't seem to put words to what she wants. "You can still go on dates," he adds. "Why don't you ask him out?" "Are you serious?" "As a gas attack." She snorts. "You think I should ask my husband out on a date?" "I already said that. I thought I was the one with only one ear and partial hearing." "Fine." ix. "Pass me the Sports section," he asks, not glancing up from his meal and adding, as an afterthought, "please." "No." He frowns, looking up. "Er, Ginny, I –" "Let's go out tonight." "Okay, but –" "On a date." It's quiet. "You want to go on a date with me?" he says. "Yes. Is that so crazy?" She tilts her chin at him in a challenge. "No, I guess not." "Excellent. Seven sharp. Don't be late." He opens his mouth to say something only to change his mind, his mouth clamping shut again. She stands, handing him the Sports page and kissing the top of his messy hair before marching triumphantly from the room. She gets home from work early that afternoon and takes a long time in the bath, pampering herself. She dries her hair and spells it into a fancy twist. She sprays fruity perfume on herself, the kind Harry likes, and dresses up in a skirt and jumper her sister-in-law Audrey bought her last Christmas. She goes down to the kitchen, expecting him home at any minute. An hour later, its past seven and he's no where to be seen. She keeps waiting, refusing to leave her seat at the table, refusing to acknowledge that he's late, that he might have forgotten, or – and it's worse, really – that he might have remembered but deemed something else more important. She gives up when the clock chimes nine. She tears off her clothing angrily, slipping into pyjamas, and undoes her hair so fiercely it hurts. She heats leftovers with her wand and eats quickly, still seething. He hasn't even sent an owl or a Floo. A part of her wants to send him an owl or Floo and demand answers, but a larger part of her is too stubborn. It's past midnight when she hears the front door open. She stands slowly, ready to rip him to pieces. And then she realises he's not alone: he's talking, and so is someone else, a childish voice that's thick with tears. When he walks into the room with an arm around Lily, Ginny has no words. Lily's dressed up in a too short skirt, her make-up is smeared from tears, and the curls she must have spelled her hair into have half come undone, leaving her hair a tangled mess. "What happened?" Ginny gasps. Lily bursts into a wave of fresh tears and folds into her mother's arms immediately, pressing her face to Ginny's stomach like she's a little toddler again, haunted by a nightmare. Ginny runs a hand soothingly over her back, making soft shushing sounds as she looks to Harry for answers. "I got an owl from McGonagall," he explains softly, "right before I was supposed to leave. She said that a number of her students had disappeared, and she suspected they were crashing a Muggle party in London, something she'd heard whispers about over the week." "A party?" Ginny murmured, trying to put the pieces together. "I'm sorry, Mum," Lily wailed into her shirt, her words muffled and broken. "I decided to go there and wait for the students to arrive, give them a little surprise. I was still going to make it back by seven, but no one came and it was past seven, but . . . and then McAvery told me the party was elsewhere, and he would go in my place so I could get home. And then Hugo showed up at my office as I was packing my things, and he said . . . he said that Al had sent him and that they were all at that party and things had gotten out of hand. That there were other Wizards there, not just from Hogwarts, and they were using the Imperious curse on Muggle girls, and –" "I get the picture," she murmurs. She squats down, taking Lily's face in her own. "Were you at the party, sweetheart?" She already knows the answer, but she has to ask anyway. Lily nods slowly, her bottom lip trembling. "L-Lucas invited me," she whispers. "When Jamie saw me there, he – he told me I had to go home, but I – I ran away from him, because if he could be there then – then – then I could, too and it was a big party and then they – they," she gasps, "– they started . . . Daddy c-came and nothing happened to – to me, b-but I. . . ." She doesn't require her daughter to say any more. They will have to talk more, and it won't be pleasant, but that's not for now. She makes Lily tea, wipes the tears from her eyes, and runs a bath for her. When she comes back downstairs, Lily in the loo, washing away the night, she finds Harry sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a Firewhiskey and staring at the wall. "She'll be fine," she says. He nods. "It took us a while to find the party and then to break it up and arrest everyone. When I found Lily, she was sobbing in Al's arms, and James was beating the shit out of some boy." He pauses. "They might have all been at a stupid, dangerous party," his face contorts and he takes a sip of his drink, his knuckles white on the bottle, "but at least my boys took care of their sister." "That's certainly something," she whispers. He glances up at her. "I'm sorry I was late." She sits beside him, grasping his hand. "I think you have a pretty good excuse." x. When Ginny goes back upstairs, Lily is lying on her own bed in her own room, her wet hair spread across the pillow as she curls around a stuffed beaver she use to carry everywhere. Ginny quietly crosses the room and sits on the edge of the small bed. Lily doesn't look at her. "Feel any better?" Ginny asks gently, brushing a stray lock of red hair from Lily's cheek. She nods. "Your daddy said you could spend the night here. McGonagall knows, too, and you don't have to go back until Monday if you don't want. You can spend the weekend here." Still, Lily doesn't say anything. Ginny gets up to leave, to give her space, when her small voice says, "He was such an arse." "Lucas?" Ginny asks knowingly. Lily nods. "And everybody is going to be so angry at me." Ginny sits back down on the bed, reaching out a hand and stroking her daughter's arm. "Why would anybody be angry at you?" "Because my dad ruined the party," she whispers, tears welling up in her eyes. "And it would have been so bad if he hadn't come, but what is everybody gonna think?" "Oh, Lily, nobody cares about that stupid party, I promise. They're all glad to have gotten out of there when your dad came. And anyone who wasn't, well, those people aren't worth your time." Lily's quiet, clutching her beaver to her chest. Ginny stretches out on the bed, lying beside Lily, and the smaller girl curls into her automatically. "I really am sorry," Lily says. "I know. . . . It's hard, being thirteen. You only get to be a teenager once, and its an amazing time, but . . . when you're young, everything is the end of the world. Everything is so much – so much bigger and simply more. Every feeling you have is enough to make your heart explode. And that's good, but sometimes . . . sometimes you have to remember that things aren't always life or death, and . . . what matters most isn't parties or boys or how you dress or talk or. . . . What matters is that you keep on . . . keeping on. "Does that make any sense?" "Yeah," Lily whispers. Ginny kisses her hair, it's quiet and easy lying there, and they fall asleep like that. xi. Lily is back at Hogwarts, reports to the Daily Prophet have been dealt with, Muggles' memories have been cleared, and the four twenty-something Wizards responsible for the entire ordeal are behind bars. Ginny is finishing an article for tomorrow's deadline when Harry arrives home from work. She expects him to bend over and kiss her head, to put his briefcase aside and ask her about her day or dinner. He doesn't do any of this, however, and after a moment, she looks over at him to find him staring intently at her. "What? Did something happen again?" "We never got to go on our date." She shrugs. "It's okay. It was only dinner and dancing. We can do that some other time." She gives a reassuring smile. "I got an owl from Lily and one from Al. She's doing well. And she hexed Lucas yesterday. Makes me proud, that one." He gives a half-crooked smile. "Good." He puts down his things, slips off his coat, and then turns to the wireless. She's a little confused, but she doesn't have time to say anything before he's found some woman crooning some sweet melody and has turned to face her again. He holds out a hand. "Did I miss something?" she asks. "Dance with me." She doesn't question it further, but stands and grasps his proffered hand with a raised brow. He spins her to him abruptly, and she slams into his chest, her breath rushing out of her lungs. "Don't forget, now," he says, "I'm a terrible dancer." She grins. "My feet can attest to it," she replies as his hands slip around her back. They try and actually dance for a few minutes, and it consists of silly spins and twirls and bumping into one another and the counter and stepping on each other's toes, and it makes her laugh so hard she's crying. Eventually they wind up merely standing, swaying a little side to side, her head resting on her chest. Her days at Hogwarts were often hard, but she loved them nonetheless. She's realised, though, that she wouldn't go back to them. She couldn't. Why would she want to? She has everything now that she spent her Hogwarts career dreaming of. She'll happily leave being young and insecure and irresponsible to Lily and her brothers and cousins. "I was thinking," Harry murmurs, "maybe you could get back into Quidditch." "What'd you mean?" "Coaching," he says simply. She lets her mind settle on the idea. It's a good one. She'd be an excellent coach, she's sure of it. "Harry?" she says. "Hmm?" "I'm old." "Ginny . . ." "And I think – I think I'm okay with that." She pulls away from him just enough to look up into his face. He smiles. "You sure?" "I'm sure." He kisses her, and nothing is missing, and she wonders if anything ever really was. "And Ginny, for the record, forty isn't old," he whispers into her hair. "Complain when you're a hundred and twelve." "Yes, sir." Fin. And in the end the words won't matter, 'Cause in the end nothing stays the same, And in the end dreams just scatter and fall like rain. 'Cause all we are, we are, All we are, we are, And every day is a start of something beautiful, something real. A/N: This is another of those stories that demanded to be written the moment the idea came to me. It's a little different than what I usually write, but hopefully it's still enjoyed ;) Please review! |
| Reviews 21 |
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