Search:

SIYE Time:9:28 on 29th March 2024
SIYE Login: no


Who Is Ginny Weasley Dating?
By sapphire200182

- Text Size +

Category: The One Where Everyone Finds Out (2021-1)
Characters:All
Genres: Comedy, Romance
Warnings: Mild Language
Story is Complete
Rating: PG
Reviews: 19
Summary: ***Winner of Best Overall and the People's Choice award in The One Where Everyone Found Out challenge (2021-1)***The fact that someone new was going out with Ginny Weasley seemed to interest a great number of people, including the rest of the Weasley family. But this time, it's a little different...
Hitcount: Story Total: 12669; Chapter Total: 2758
Awards: View Trophy Room




Author's Notes:
Thank you for the reviews and Silver Trinket votes! Well, at last we are done. I hope you have all enjoyed reading this as much as I have had writing it – it was rather a trip down memory lane back to school for me, in some ways. I hope I did justice to each character, I like them all, even Draco and Astoria – whom I hope to revisit soon.




ChapterPrinter
StoryPrinter


Chapter Four: Reactions



By the Gryffindor common-room fire, on that cosy Saturday afternoon, the Four sprawled comfortably over their favourite armchairs and sofas.

Harry relaxed on one end of the sofa, next to a low table where a deadly quiet war was being waged on a beat-up chessboard, dipping every now and then into a bag of Bertie Botts’ Every-Flavour Beans. On the other end of the sofa, Ginny flicked through the latest Witch Weekly tucked behind The Standard Book of Spells Grade Five, her legs occupying most of Harry’s lap, and a bottle of pumpkin fizz at her elbow. Opposite her, Hermione was curled up in an armchair doing a Rune Riddle, scratching Crookshanks absently behind the ears and not in the least fooled by Ginny’s ‘studying’.

Seated beside Hermione was Ron, ostensiby concentrating on the chessboard and his share of Beans, but glancing up every now and then from behind his “chess face” at the couple across the way.

Ron had expected fireworks of some kind when Fred and George had finally clued in over lunch at the Three Broomsticks. But the Twins had been left stunned and speechless — a fact which rather tickled Ron, actually. And at least it solved one problem — it was now their business to tell Bill and Charlie. Ron was out of the line of spell-fire, both ways; he could safely swear to Ginny that he hadn’t told on her, and Bill would be out of his hair.

In any case, Ron was struggling with some serious doubts over where he stood in all this. Of course, from the very start, he’d known where his duty lay, all the Brothers did — protect the Baby Sister! Don’t let some spotty grabby greasy git get his smarmy hands on her! She deserved only the best! And any bloke who made her cry, let alone break her heart, was going to feel the full wrath of six wands and twelve boots! Because that was what family did for each other — but most especially especially for Baby Sisters.

But... this was Harry. Ron’s best mate.

Oh, Ron had seen it coming a mile away, of course. He’d seen all the signs himself, and as a fellow teenage wizard observing another, had deciphered them correctly. He just hadn’t wanted it to come true, and had for a long time convinced himself it wouldn’t. Because if anything went pear-shaped in the relationship, Ron would be forced to stick by his sister. And then Harry wouldn’t be his best mate any more, and Ron would be completely shattered.

But... this was Harry. He was the nicest bloke Ron knew. After all, that was exactly why they were best mates. He’d be the last bloke on earth to mistreat Ginny. In fact, he had been nothing but courteous and respectful to Ginny, all these years. Heck, Harry had even saved Ginny’s life, as they all remembered. And although Ron still hated the idea of his sister doing anything disgusting with Harry — they were all blokes, dorm-mates; they’d all heard and cracked the same jokes, but sisters were never part of the jokes until now and it was all starting to be very un-funny — Ron had to admit that push come to shove, if it had to be anyone going out with his sister — and he knew intellectually that it would have to be someone, someday — then Harry would not be a bad choice. No, he couldn’t in fact think of anyone else he could stomach, besides Harry.

Damn it, it was all too confusing for one bloke to think through alone!

Ron sneaked another peek at the two teenagers on the sofa. He watched as Ginny kicked Harry playfully, and leaned over to show him something funny in her totally-not-Witch Weekly. Ron took the opportunity of Harry’s distraction to discreetly nudge Hermione’s elbow.

“Look at them,” he said quietly. “They’re rather cute, aren’t they?”

Hermione looked up from her puzzle, and flashed him a complicit smirk. “Absolutely adorable,” Hermione agreed.

Ron thought of Dean Thomas and Michael Corner, and of Cho Chang. “Think it’ll last?”

Hermione answered with all the confident innocence of the young. “Ginny’s never had eyes for anyone else, and she understands Harry best. Harry absolutely adores her. They’re a good match for each other, and they’re happy. So why not?”

“Yeah,” said Ron. “Why not.” Absent-mindedly, he left his hand where it was, as he watched his sister settle down again with her magazine, feet curled in Harry’s lap.

Why not, right? After all, Harry did like Ginny very much, and Ginny, everyone knew about her thing for Harry. And if his best mate and his sister were so clearly head over heels for each other, well... maybe Ron would never ever be forced to choose between one or the other, right? And that was all he’d ever wanted, really; for his best mate and his sister both to be happy...

“Check.”

“Eh?” Ron looked up. Harry grinned at him from across the chessboard, and pointed down to where Harry’s Knight had come vaulting from out of nowhere to boot one of Ron’s pawns off the board, and was now threatening his King and Queen simultaneously.

Forked, and no way out. He would not even be able to take the Knight in return afterwards.

Ron suddenly realised his friend was the happiest and most carefree he had ever seen since, well, since their fourth year. Before Sirius, before Cedric... no, not happy. He looked like what Hermione would call serene. Ron glanced at Ginny. She was mouthing the words to some song, probably some Weird Sisters tune, and bobbing her head to the imaginary beat. Every now and then she looked up, and when it happened that she caught Harry’s eye, she flashed him a smile of pure... peace.

All I ever wanted was for my sister and my best mate to be happy.

He looked down at the board again. His King and his Queen...

Ron smiled, reached forward and gently tipped over the chess-piece, which squawked in protest as it tumbled over. “Cheers, mate,” he said. “I resign.”

* * *


Al l in all, it had been a great Hogsmeade weekend. Watching the sappy couple opposite, Hermione mentally patted herself on the back for the little bit of engineering she had performed to bring these matters to pass. She helped herself to a handful of Every-Flavour Beans, settled back in her armchair, thoroughly self-satisfied, and got on with a lazy Saturday afternoon.

She was careful not to dislodge Ron’s hand from where it rested on her elbow.

* * *


On Sunday afternoon, Bill Flooed to Number 93, Diagon Alley.

Number 93’s fireplace led into the kitchen of Fred and George’s flat over their shop. Once again, Bill was reminded of the reason why the Weasley Brothers didn’t hold their piss-ups in 93, and not just because they were respecting the Twins’ privacy. The kitchen, like every other room in the flat, was lined floor to ceiling with merchandise. Cauldrons simmered away on the stove, emitting purple and green smoke, and the room was redolent with the fragrance of cotton candy and castor oil. The sink and counter top groaned under the weight of more containers and bottles and bags of ingredients and experiments. By the fireplace was a hat-stand on which a dozen more cauldrons hung. Bill took especial care not to nudge them; he didn’t want to spill anything dangerous or embarrassing on himself.

Half the stained and pitted kitchen table was likewise taken up with similar bric-a-brac. The Twins occupied the other half, along with the remnants of their lunch.

Fred and George greeted him rather subduedly. Uh oh, thought Bill. He helped himself to a bottle from the waist-high stack of crates of Stoor’s Mild sitting within easy arm’s reach of the table, cleared a space on the table of mostly-empty pizza boxes and empty ale bottles, took a long swallow, and planted his elbows firmly on the table.

“Alright,” said Bill. “Report.”

There was a moment of silence, then Fred cleared his throat. Twice. “You’re not going to like this,” said Fred.

“We didn’t,” muttered George.

Bill’s heart sank. “He’s that much a pillock?”

“Not quite,” said Fred. He looked to his twin for support, then squared his shoulders. “It’s Harry.”

“Harry who?”

“Harry Potter,” said George, in funereal tones.

Bill remembered a moment, deep beneath the Valley of Kings, when he and his team of Curse-Breakers had been taken complete by surprise by the sudden clanging of alarm wards, the ones set to repel the most dangerous curses, and looked up from their work to see a hidden chamber slam open and a huge swarm of centuries-old Greater Flesh-Stripping Khepers emerge. That was the only time he had ever heard those particular wards set off for real, and he still had nightmares about that day. Bill’s cool actions getting his team out alive in the face of excruciating death had earned him one of the highest of commendations the Bank could give.

“Oh,” said Bill. He drank more of his ale, wishing it was Firewhiskey. “Okay. Does, uh, does Ginny look happy?”

“Oh yeah,” nodded Fred.

“Positively over the moon,” said George.

“This isn’t the right time, really,” grumped Bill. “She should be concentrating on her O.W.L.s. And Harry should be preparing for his N.E.W.T.s, even if it is just sixth-year. And there’s the small matter of the bloody war going on. Harry’s got a big part in that too... ah, damn it, what is he thinking?!”

“Looked about as lovestruck as our Ginny,” mumbled Fred.

“Head over heels besotted,” confirmed George.

Bill eyed the Twins critically. Something was amiss. “What’s up with you two? Ginny didn’t spot you, did she?”

“We had lunch together at the Three Broomsticks.”

“With her and Harry? Did you argue?”

“No...”

“Did she hex you?”

George shook his head.

The Twins were behaving absolutely inexplicably. Bill pressed them further: “You didn’t prank them, did you?”

“NO!” said Fred, in palpable anguish.

“Good, because I said not to!” said Bill. “You’ll get your innings if we have to, don’t worry about that.”

“No,” said Fred and George together. “We’re not pulling anything on him,” said Fred.

“Not Harry,” said George.

“Why not?”

In answer, Fred and George stood up, and silently led the way out of the flat, down to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. The shop was quiet, as it was during term-time, but Verity Carter was busy filling out mail orders in the back room. She greeted Bill with a kind of squeak and a wave, and blushed madly as she stuffed innocent-looking brown paper owl delivery bags with Skiving Snackboxes and other merchandise.

The Twins led Bill to the front of the shop, and stood there, hands in their pockets. “This is why not,” said George.

Bill stared. “You think Harry will burn down your shop in revenge?” he said, with heavy sarcasm.

“He might as well,” said Fred. “He’d be within his rights to, frankly.”

“We owe all this to him,” said George simply.

“We’d be a pair of right bloody ungrateful berks if we lifted a finger in this matter,” said Fred.

“Oh, knock it off, you cross-grained gits,” said Bill sharply. “You two had better start making some sense fast, because I am running...!”

“You don’t understand!” wailed George. “He gave us the Galleons to start all this!”

“A thousand Galleons,” whispered Fred reverently. He crossed to a shelf of Skiving Snackboxes, and laid a trembling hand on them. “All his Triwizard winnings...”

Bill’s jaw dropped.

“We were completely skint after Bagman stiffed us. And anyway between us we barely had fifty Galleons and the robes off our backs, even before Bagman made off with the lot...”

“He practically owns all this, you know,” said Fred, walking slowly down the shelves, his fingertips caressing the merchandise. “Without Harry, all of it would just be a big load of grand ideas and failed experiments.”

“We owe it all to him. That great, big, noble git.”

“And he wouldn’t take a Knut back, not to this day.”

“Not a single Sickle.”

“He did get our sister, though,” observed Bill sourly. “Would you say she’s worth a thousand Galleons?”

The twins rounded on him. “It’s not the monetary value, you Knut-nobbling goblin, it’s the... the principle of the thing!” exclaimed Fred.

It all came pouring out then in a torrent. Fred and George stormed up and down the shop, gesticulating in anguish.

“Haven’t you been listening?!”

“We made all this stuff, directly and indirectly, with the Galleons he gave us.”

“All the stuff we were going to use on Ginny’s paramours!”

“We can’t do Harry with this! Any of it!”

“None of it!”

“It’s not right at all!”

“But we can’t let him get away with it!”

“Making off with our sister like that, and scot-free!”

“We’ve always pranked all Ginny’s boyfriends, on principle...”

“We got Thomas even after we left Hogwarts...”

“Yeah, waited for him outside Scrivenshaft's and switched all his new quills for Smart-Arse ones...”

“Slipped U-No-Poo in his mints...”

“Jinxed his gloves to bite his fingers every now and then, cause we heard he was grabby...”

“But Harry’s our one and only benefactor! So we can’t!”

“Alright, alright, I get the picture,” cut in Bill, rubbing his temples.

“We’ll have to get back to you on this,” said Fred firmly.

“Me and Fred are going to have a long talk about our business ethics,” said George glumly.

And they solemnly escorted Bill out of the shop, shut the door, turned down all the blinds and flicked the sign to ‘CLOSED’.

Standing there on their doorstep, Bill muttered to himself, “Guess I’ll Apparate then.”

* * *


On the little loveseat in the living room of Flat 5B, Hibis Close, Fleur laughed and laughed, recovered herself, had some wine, and then laughed some more.

“Well, I’m glad you’re tickled, at least,” grumped Bill.

“Oh, mon coeur, who would not be,” said Fleur, wiping tears from her eyes. “Well, Gabrielle will be crushed. But it is good to be disappointed early, I think.”

“It’s not funny, Fleur,” said Bill. “Ginny’s young, and Harry has a great big putain of a task in front of him, as you would say; you know the Prophecy, you know what he has to do...”

Fleur shrugged as only the French can. “So the future holds challenge aplenty, so what. Let them enjoy the time they have. You think Ginny does not know what the future looks like for him, and her? I think she knows exactly what he faces.” The tall blonde half-Veela sipped her wine. “Perhaps she has decided to stand by him all the same. That is something I can respect.”

Bill ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. “I’m not sure she knows fully what she is in for. It’s going to be terribly dangerous, being the girlfriend of Harry Potter. And Harry doesn’t need distractions right now.”

“It is going to be dangerous for all of us, mon coeur. And Harry, you trust Harry to defeat him, do you not?”

“Of course I want him to, but...”

“Of course we all do, because if he doesn’t, then we are all in le grosse tas de merde. So,” she shrugged again, “trust him.”

Bill sighed. “I’m just going to have to, aren’t I?”

Fleur put down her wineglass, and swung a leg over Bill, straddling him. “Need I remind you, we Triwizard Champions are, how you say, ‘tough customer’. And after all, he did win the damn thing.”

“Alright, remind me then, Mademoiselle Delacour...”

* * *


Arthur Weasley had long ago learned the importance of knowing when to see and hear nothing. It was a critical skill to possess, bringing up six boys and a girl, all of them clever, high-spirited, and as violently obstinate in their own ways as their parents had been. Most days he let dear capable Molly have her head, intervening only when his absolute authority was appealed to.

So when he wandered into the kitchen of the Burrow and found Molly and the poor lovelorn Nymphadora Tonks conversing quietly over tea and muffins, Arthur figuratively Silenced his ears, and paused only to greet Tonks and snag a muffin for himself on his way out the kitchen door.

Unfortunately, it was difficult for even Arthur to ignore when Tonks said much too loudly, “No, Molly, it’s completely unfair to me; I’m an Auror for Merlin’s sake, on top of being in the Order, does he think I lead the safest life in the world? So what about the war? So what about You-Know-Who? None of that’s stopping Bill and Fleur, or even Ginny and Harry from being together, for Merlin’s sakes, so why should he let it come between me and him?”

“What do you mean, Ginny and — OH!” Molly shot a look at Arthur. “Arthur?! Did you know about this?”

Molly’s colour was immediately rising, Arthur could see. He made sure to speak slowly, calmly: “No, Molly, I didn’t know.”

“...oh, damn,” said Tonks miserably, her hand jumping up to her mouth, “I thought you’d know, practically everyone in Hogwarts does, I... oh, sh-”

“What on earth goes on in that girl’s head, I’m sure I don’t know, she has her O.W.L.s to worrry about, not to mention...!”

“Molly, calm down,” said Arthur, shooting a glance at Tonks. He took his wife gently by the shoulders, and smiled as he looked down on her worried face. “Our children are growing up, have grown up, almost all of them. The time for us to tell them what they cannot do is nearly past. Yes, I know Ginny is young, but,” he shrugged, “well, that’s also the best time to make mistakes. We’ll discuss this later.”

“But, Art...!”

Later,” said Arthur quietly but firmly. He turned pointedly to Tonks and said kindly, “Please don’t distress yourself, my dear Tonks. We do find out these things sooner or later. Molly and I would love if you could stay for dinner.” Turning back to his wife, he said casually, “I’m, er, going to my shed for a bit.”

Arthur went down to his shed, carefully shut the door, and surveyed its familiar, cosy insides. A half-dismantled radio sat on the workbench, parts and screwdrivers scattered all over, notes on its interior workings scribbled on the backs of discarded drafts of Muggle protection legislation. On the sagging shelves lining the walls sat carpentry tools; soldering irons; burned-out toaster ovens; a carefully-polished collection of telephones ranging from ornate rotary diallers to brick-shaped cordless sets to flip-out cellulars the size of a toddler’s fist; a framed photograph of the Weasley family, just missing Percy for the moment, that silly boy. All the bric-a-brac of his passions gathered together... and not a single red-headed soul, nor Extendable Ear, nor worried wife in sight.

Arthur was satisfied he was quite alone.

So he sat down, slapped his knee, and laughed, noiselessly, until his sides ached and the tears squeezed out of his eyes. “Harry Potter,” he said to himself, grinning. “Well, I can’t say fairer than that.”

Of course, Arthur knew that he would have to remind Molly to keep as outwardly oblivious and inwardly impartial as a parent could possibly be. He could rely on Bill to keep a general eye on things, and on Charlie to look out for Ginny in particular. He hoped Percy might somehow hear of it, and be cheered. Fred and George would jolly things along and smooth over any minor fuss, as usual. Ron might be inclined to jealousy, but Arthur had an inkling that he would have his own hands full with a certain other young clever-cogs of a witch before long. And he would have to reassure Ginny, gently, that come what may, he would always have a ready ear, and perhaps shoulder, for his baby girl.

Meanwhile, Arthur would work as he always had to keep them all safe from the threats and cruelties of the world. As would Harry, Arthur knew he could count on him for that. Ah, there was a fine lad who had never shied from doing what needed doing. All said and done... if the Chosen One wasn’t good enough for one’s daughter, who else would be?

You couldn’t say fairer than that.

* * *


“Sod Potter, and sod his Weaselette girlfriend,” snarled Draco out loud to himself. The words echoed in the Room of Requirement, sounding empty and hollow in dead stillness of the air. “And sod Weasley, and sod that bloody mudblood Granger, and... and...”

He couldn’t quite bring himself to speak Astoria’s name. He didn’t know why. His mind was all in a jumble these days, ever since he had undertaken the mission the Dark Lord had given him to restore the family honour. The Dark Lord, Potter, Dumbledore, Weasley, Astoria... their faces swam in his mind, his thoughts flicking from one to another rapidly until his head pounded and his throat felt dry and it seemed even his eyes ached. There was no reason for them to do that, he was hunkered down here on his heels on a patch of Scourgified floor, his head in his arms. His eyes had no right to be tearing up like this. It was the dust in this damn Room, no doubt about that.

Somehow Astoria swam to the forefront of his aching head. Draco thought about what she had said. Yes, a part of him longed, screamed, begged to be released from this repulsive duty he had been forced to — no, that his father’s choice of friends had forced him to accept. He wished he had friends, proper friends, strong in will and in magical power, friends to whom he could turn to when the whole world felt like it was crashing down on him — not sycophants even weaker than himself, and rivals waiting to stab him in the back, step in and fill his dead shoes. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to run away from it all, away from Hogwarts, the war, the Malfoy name...

A larger and far louder part of him shouted down that blubbering, weak coward; there was no way out, here too Astoria was right — he was trapped in a net of his own weaving, running had done nothing for Igor Karkaroff, and would do nothing for him, they held his parents and would be sure to hunt him down and end him messily, painfully. The only way out was to win, the only way to survive was to kill... kill or be killed...

Floundering, Draco grabbed onto that treacherously tenuous lifeline of thought and held on for dear life.

Because, the Dark Lord was sure to win, wasn’t He? He had an army, Draco had seen it, a formidable army of hardened soldiers and pure-bloods and werewolves and giants, steeped in blood and cruelty; and the other side had nothing but old men and platitudes and mud-bloods, and Father had always said they lacked the magical power and force of will to do the necessary. Like it or loathe it, the Malfoys had to be on the winning side, for survival’s sake.

And when the Dark Lord did win, when Draco took his rightful place beside the Dark Lord, a pillar of proper Wizarding Society, having proven himself a worthy heir of the Malfoy name, having guided the family through these perilous times, having proven her wrong... wouldn’t Astoria then concede he had been right to stay this course? Wouldn’t he be able to look her in the eye, and not feel burning shame at the humiliation he and his family had endured at the hands of Potter and his friends?

Perhaps then... perhaps then Astoria would look up at him the same way the Weaselette looked up at Potter, like they thought no-one was watching, like they didn’t care if anyone was watching. And then maybe he could...

Draco pushed that last thought out of his mind through sheer force of will. He must focus. He got up and turned back to face the Vanishing Cabinet. “Yeah, well... to hell with Potter and the Weaselette, anyhow.”

He told himself there was nothing to be jealous of.

* * *


When Molly Weasley was angry or fearful, she cooked. It didn’t matter even if it wasn’t anytime near breakfast, lunch or dinner; in her experience someone peckish was always around and all the plates would be licked clean in a twinkling. And a life spent raising a family of six boys and one girl all equally rambunctious had never proven her wrong. So while Tonks went and had a lie-down in the living room, because she had been up all night on duty, poor dear, Molly began peeling potatoes, chopping vegetables, boiling stock and browning slices of beef. From four hundred recipes in her head she plucked a handful without really thinking about it, and let comfortable routine take over her hands while her mind buzzed like a disturbed wasp’s nest.

Harry Potter. Of all the boys in the world. Of all the boys in the world!

She liked Harry. No, she loved him, almost like a son. But that was the rub, wasn’t it? He was not exactly hers, she did not have the absolutely undisputed right of a mother to tell him off for dragging Ron and the others on all sorts of dangerous excursions, let alone talk to him about forming relationships during these uncertain times. And that was the line between family and almost-family, wasn’t it?

What if he’d finally let his fame get to his head? He seemed a nice boy and all, but... that was just it, wasn’t it? He was a boy, and she’d raised six of them, and she knew boys would be boys as much as girls would be girls. Ginny was clever, and outgoing, and quite attractive, and that was half the problem wasn’t it? Boys, let’s face it, rarely looked beyond such matters. And famous Harry Potter could certainly have his pick of the lot. Not that Molly knew what else he had been up to in school. But there had been snatches of talk, here and there, that she couldn’t help overhearing about some Ravenclaw girl, and before that some other girl, during the Triwizard mess. (Molly coloured a little when she thought about her unkindness to poor dear Hermione, and wondered if Hermione knew how very sorry she was.) So how serious about all this was Harry, really?

And what about Ginny? What had she been thinking? Was she actually happy, or was this a rebound, after that Thomas business? Was it hero-worship? Was she living out her silly crush from when she was little? Was she throwing herself after him just because of all this ‘Chosen One’ business? Molly fervently hoped not; she’d raised her daughter to be better than that!

She’d known there was something, of course. A mother always knows. (Her mother certainly had, although she hadn’t seen the elopement coming.) She had seen the longing looks, measuring and wistful by turns, stolen when one or the other thought no-one was watching. She had seen the secret pleasures taken in the snatched moments as they drifted together, the hidden pain and regrets as they drifted apart. Mothers always knew!

Molly cast an irritable eye over the table full of food, then stood there stock-still in surprise. She put a hand to her mouth. And then she laughed softly to herself, as she looked over the dishes and for the first time that afternoon became consciously aware of what she had made — lamb chops, steak-and-kidney pie, spring greens, baked jacket potatoes, and treacle tart — a mix of Ginny’s and Harry’s favourites. They sat there on the table, together, looking and smelling absolutely beautiful. They conjured up memories of the joyful past and hopes for a loving future.

Molly laughed again, her heart suddenly at peace.

After all, a mother always knows. Even if she herself doesn’t know it, at the time.

And that was a kind of magic Molly could trust.

* * *


Prof essor Severus Snape examined the seventeen small cauldrons simmering gently on the long low table that occupied most of his private sitting room. He added a touch of ingredient here, a precise stir there, observed hue and consistency, smelled and tasted the ones that were safe to smell and taste, and recorded everything in a logbook. Satisfied that his long-term projects and experiments were progressing well, he crossed over to the fireplace, banked the fire, and sat down in the worn armchair.

Night enfolded the castle. All was, if not exactly well, then at least still and silent.

It was at moments like these, in the deep, dark gap between dusk and dawn, when the world itself seemed to fall Petrified into a crack between time and space, that Severus Snape lessened for a fraction the iron grip of self-control with which he otherwise ruled his actions, his thoughts, his very feelings. For without these cofferdams of steely will rendering impenetrable his mind and his heart, he would very quickly come to a messy, agonising and prolonged end. In these fleeting moments Severus Snape opened a chink in his mental armour, allowed himself a brief interlude from the tragedy-play that was otherwise the entirety of his existence.

Severus sat, and examined his thoughts.

It really should be none of his business, the personal lives of two children, outside of class, of the School, of everything. He should not be affected in the least by either the knowledge or the sight of Lily Evans’s son and the Weasley daughter, walking hand in hand, with every sign of oblivious adolescent infatuation. Evans’s son was in no physical danger, and that was that as far as his deepest and darkest secret was concerned. The Weasley daughter meant even less to him than that — should mean far less to him than that. The entire fact ought to mean nothing to him. That Saturday morning, he should have seen nothing more than a messy brave black-haired boy and a lively clever red-haired girl.

And yet... he saw a messy brave black-haired boy. And a lively clever red-haired girl.

Ridiculous, yes. But that was what he saw nonetheless, and thought of ghosts and bones and pain and regret. And so he brooded upon those thoughts, deep into the timeless night, as the fire hissed and crackled.

Sometimes, on such nights as these, as Severus thought about his life — all that the past held, all that the present was, all that the future promised — he found himself tottering at the very edge of the abyss, felt himself nearly overcome by the blackest and bitterest of despair, by helpless fury so all-consuming it was all he could do not just to retain control of his own actions, but to remain literally sane. All he could do not to scream and wail and dissolve into a mindless wreck, as lost to humanity as the victim of a Dementor’s Kiss, from the sheer anguish and misery of his existence.

On nights like these, Severus had a certain indulgence.

It was an indulgence he rarely permitted himself, and if he had no need of it he did not partake, unless it was the very worst of the worst of such nights. Even now, with most of his defences let down, Severus tried to weather the storm of his emotions without recourse to his one weakness. So he sat and brooded, and the flames threw long dark shadows in the room and on his face and in his heart, until he could bear it not a moment more.

Only then, white-lipped with fury, black-eyed with rage, with trembling fingers, did Severus grope for his wand and choke out, “Expecto Patronum!”

His Patronus burst from his wand, cantered a few steps, then turned back to gaze at him with sad, luminous eyes. It could be a figment of imagination, but over time, Severus somehow thought his Patronus — which should be no more animate than spell sparks — had begun to acquire more and more animalistic behaviour. Severus held out a hand, and his Patronus came closer. It trotted around him in a curious circle, almost exactly like a snuffling animal, until it was so close it would be nuzzling his shoulder if it was a real animal.

He could not touch it, any more than you could touch a sunbeam, but if he could, Severus imagined it might almost feel like the dimmest memory of a friendly fall of red hair pillowed on his shoulder.

The sight of the shining silver doe, and all that it meant to him, calmed his heart and restored his spirit like nothing else ever could. The spell-animal stayed with him for several long minutes, until Severus breathed easier, and then it stepped behind him, and faded away.

As easily as he had taken them down, Severus rebuilt the Occlumentic walls that guarded his mind and his heart day and night. When he was finished, no outward trace of emotion remained. He was once more Professor Severus Snape.

On nights like these, Snape was especially careful to take the appropriate precautions once his equanimity was re-established. Often, far too much hinged on far too little, and Snape was not one to be careless with even the least of little things. No-one must be allowed to see either his moments of ultimate weakness, or his means of dealing with them... not even himself.

Calmly he brought his wand-tip to his temple, and removed the memory of his Patronus. He allowed the silvery thread to fall thoughtlessly to the floor.

It was strange. For all his prowess at various other charms, Severus Snape had somehow never acquired the knack of casting this particular spell non-verbally. If you asked him why, he honestly could not have said.

“Evanesco.”

* * *


Charlie nodded to himself. He’d seen it coming a mile away, of course, the way the two little ‘uns always mooned over each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking. Like a pair of cautiously courting Chinese Fireballs those two were, shy and snappish at turns. He’d told Bill near as much, but he wouldn’t listen either, he was always “keeping an open mind”. Ah, they’d all been a right proper bunch of prats hadn’t they, let the egg-thief right into the nest, and he’d pinched the lot, yes he had. He’d have to give Harry a good clip on the ear for that, friendly-like, the next time he saw the wee rascal.

But Harry was a decent chap wasn’t he? Wouldn’t harm a fly, nor a dragon neither. (Being considerate to dragons put anyone tops in Charlie’s book.) There was all that business with Hagrid and Norbert, well played Potter, and then there was the Triwizard and the Horntail. None of your nasty sneaking Conjunctivitis curses, no sir, and yet a healthy respect for tooth and claw and firepower. That had been a nice bit of flying too, bold as brass monkeys, and he’d heard Potter was a fine Seeker as well. In fact, if Charlie was being completely honest with himself, he wouldn’t lay even Galleons on himself, were he and Potter ever to find themselves on opposing Quidditch teams.

No, Harry was as tough as they came. If Harry ever broke his poor baby sister’s heart, Charlie’d have to find something special for him. Coming from Charlie, that was a mark of respect, that was. Harry’d already proven he could take on a Horntail, but Charlie thought even the “Chosen One” might find a Peruvian Vipertooth a little surprising... especially if she was accompanied by a Swedish Short-Snout, diving out of the clouds or pouncing up from the undergrowth...

Ah, but that Ginny though, what a fine pair they were. She hadn’t fussed around, had she? Set her cap on him from the start, gone straight for the alpha, and straight for the kill. Bet Potter never knew what’d hit him. What a fine pair they’d make. And all jokes and dragons aside, they gave every indication they’d make it. Whyever not? They were two decent people at heart, and that was all that was needed for love to hatch, grow, unfurl and soar.

Yes, Charlie decided, this called for a toast.

He got up slowly and carefully to his feet, steady as a rock, using every ounce of his renowned Seeker dexterity to keep the ship from rocking. Yup, he still had it. Charlie raised his flagon of Romanian lager, and decided that the occasion called for a general toast. The whole world should know of his fine opinion of the couple. So he addressed the world in general.

“To Ginny, and Harry Potter! Good luck, mate, you’ll need it! Sănătate!

“S 8;NĂTATE!” chorused everyone else in the bar, grinning widely.

Charlie drained his flagon, slammed it down, and subsided into a happy heap on the bar. Across the room, everyone drank the toast, then went back to their conversations. A Romanian witch asked her date, “What was the Englishman saying?”

He shrugged. “Not a clue.”

* * *


Perc y Weasley sat in his office chair, his quill poised over a detailed report summarising the results of several conferences with valued International Confederation of Wizards security partners on mutual co-operation in managing the You-Know-Who situation. At his elbow, his morning mug of tea cooled, a half-eaten Ginger Newt sitting on the saucer. On his table lay a short scrap of parchment in Bill’s no-nonsense hand. There were only three words: It’s Harry Potter.

Percy’s eyes, however, were not on the report, but on a photograph shoved partially behind his out-tray. It was a Muggle photograph, because in Muggle photoraphs the images didn’t — couldn’t — move and walk out of frame. It had been taken three years ago, when Father had been messing about (as usual) with his Muggle gadgets, but it was the only photograph he possessed in which he was not alone.

Father and Mother sat beaming at the head of a laden table, flanked by Bill and Charlie. Charlie had his arm around Ginny, frozen with wide grinning mouths as if in mid-laugh over a shared joke. Bill was resting an elbow on Percy’s shoulder, looking thoroughly at ease. Fred and George were feeding each other mashed potatoes, pretending to coo like newlyweds over wedding cake. And here were Harry, Ron and Hermione, at the bottom of the table; the three inseparables. To the keenest of eyes, aided perhaps by a dash of imagination, one might fancy that Harry was glancing from the corner of his eye up the table just a little, and Ginny likewise down it, at him.

But Percy knew from long familiarity the scene the photograph had captured. In reality he was lost in other recollections on the inside of his head far more vivid, though no less pleasant, albeit overlaid with regret. As Percy stared sightlessly at the unmoving image, the perpetual frown he had somehow acquired lessened, his brow cleared, and an almost-smile straightened the downturn of his mouth a little.

“Harry Potter,” he said quietly to himself. “Good luck.”



THE END



* * *

Post-script Author's Note: JK Rowling has remarked that in the movies, “Good luck” are the first two words Ginny says to Harry. Snape's scene is inspired by Makani's "DH: Always" artwork, on Deviantart.
Reviews 19
ChapterPrinter
StoryPrinter




../back
‘! Go To Top ‘!

Sink Into Your Eyes is hosted by Grey Media Internet Services. HARRY POTTER, characters, names and related characters are trademarks of Warner Bros. TM & © 2001-2006. Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions on this site are those made by the owners. All stories(fanfiction) are owned by the author and are subject to copyright law under transformative use. Authors on this site take no compensation for their works. This site © 2003-2006 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Special thanks to: Aredhel, Kaz, Michelle, and Jeco for all the hard work on SIYE 1.0 and to Marta for the wonderful artwork.
Featured Artwork © 2003-2006 by Yethro.
Design and code © 2006 by SteveD3(AdminQ)
Additional coding © 2008 by melkior and Bear