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Summer Rain | ||||
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Category: Post-DH/AB Characters:None Genres: Angst, Drama, Fluff, Humor, Romance Warnings: Mild Language, Mild Sexual Situations Story is Complete Rating: R Reviews: 26 Summary: When Harry reacts to her mother's 'hints' at the subject of marriage with a less than flattering bolt for the door, Ginny is less than impressed. Never mind that she has no desire to walk up the aisle herself, despite the pressure from every second person with an opinion and a wedding hat ready and waiting. As one argument turns into another - and another - she begins to realise that there might be even more serious issues that they need to work through. Of course, accidentally accepting a date with another man was never going to help matters. Hitcount: Story Total: 8464 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. Author's Notes: Written for BeccaFran's 'Changing Seasons' Exchange on Livejournal, for Jenadamson. |
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Ginny opened her front door, took one step into the small, sunny flat and promptly fell flat on her face. Swearing aloud, she sat up and carefully untangled her left foot from the pile of dirty washing on the carpet. For several moments, she gazed down at the jumble of towels and smelly uniform kits with a total lack of enthusiasm, before sighing, gathering them together and walking through the kitchen to the tiny laundry alcove, leaving a trail of mismatched socks as she went. Opening the door, she flung the clothes in the general direction of the washing tub, reached for her side holster and caught her wand between two fingertips. Swishing, flicking and hoping for the best, she searched her memory for a cleaning incantation. She had heard her mum utter one in disapproving tones the previous week, when she had been visiting the Burrow for a cup of tea and a chat, and Ron had stopped by with an enormous bag of grimy shirts and a volley of flabbergasted complaints that Hermione flatly refused to clean up after him. What a prat. Most of the clothes lifted from the floor and languidly slithered into the tub, which began to fill with water and soap bubbles, surely an encouraging sign. For a reason that Ginny was unable to fathom, the socks alone refused to budge, pointedly removing themselves from the tub and returning to their previous state of abandon on the floor even after she decided that there was a point when magic simply became laziness and went to throw them into the churning suds by hand. She shrugged, glanced at her wristwatch, and left them to it. Most of them were Demelza’s, anyway. Returning to the living room, she glanced around with a slightly guilty air. Even with their dirty kits off the floor, the dishes in the kitchen sink and the scattered profusion of magazines on the coffee table would set her mother’s left eye twitching if she decided to pay one of her unannounced inspect…calls that week. It wasn’t that Ginny minded her mum stopping by with little or no notice at the most inconvenient times possible. The two of them had grown even closer after the final battle at school, united in their shared method of grieving, which boiled down to keeping their minds and hands as busy as possible. She also had a fairly sound grasp of Ginny’s household skills, or lack thereof, and tended to arrive accompanied by masses of home baking. But Ginny had to admit that her mother’s desperation to maintain a degree of control over the lives of her surviving children, while possibly understandable, was starting to get a bit on her wick. Rummaging in the cabinets, she found the tin of gingerbread wizards which had been hand-delivered over the weekend, along with the usual questions about Ginny’s career — “I’ve heard excellent things about the Healer training programme at St. Mungo’s, dear. Are you sure… It just seems so much more suitable than… I mean, Quidditch, darling, it’s not really a proper job, is it?” Since Mum had been entertaining visions of a daughter in Healer robes since the day Ginny had, at five years of age, managed to perform a perfect Episkey on George’s broken nose (the fact that his prodigal sister had been responsible for the injury in the first place was mysteriously left out of the story when her mother proudly produced it at dinner parties), she was an old hand at ignoring that particular brand of disapproval. Far worse was her mother’s less than subtle probing into her relationship with Harry. Really, Ginny thought, savagely sinking her teeth into the neck of a gingerbread wizard with blue buttons and a cross-eyed expression that reminded her of Percy, and taking sadistic pleasure in the innocent biscuit’s decapitation, she wasn’t sure why Mum was suddenly so big on the idea of marriage. She’d made enough of a fuss when Bill had proposed to Fleur, hadn’t she? Admittedly, she was a lot fonder of Harry than she had been of Fleur, then, but that didn’t account for her dismay when Ron and Hermione had unexpectedly eloped on the first anniversary of Voldemort’s defeat. She liked Hermione. “Would it not have been better to wait until you’re more settled at the Ministry?” she had asked Ron fretfully, her voice rising as he had rolled his eyes in response. “You haven’t even finished your training yet and Hermione is so doing well in her department… Oh, Hermione, dear, it’s not that I’m not pleased, but you’re both so young… I already considered you a daughter… I just didn’t think… So soon…” Ginny privately thought that their mother was a bit miffed that they had eloped and successfully avoided any parental input into their wedding whatsoever. She still wondered whose idea it had been. She would have guessed Hermione, since it seemed a bit clever for Ron, but she had seen the look on his face when Mum had gone on a cleaning blitz in the days following Fred’s funeral and had found Great-Uncle William’s very old and very frilly wedding robes in the attic. Carrying them downstairs for careful cleaning and pressing, her eyes had swiveled to Ron as she ran admiring fingers over the ancient lace collar, a fact that, judging by his subsequent choking fit and spectacular loss in a chess game against Harry, Ginny was sure her brother had not missed. She had later overheard her parents talking in the kitchen, her mother suggesting that she keep the robes stored in her own trousseau chest, which was charmed against mothballs and nifflers, in case Ron might like to wear them one day. Her father had agreed, tactfully admiring the ancient monstrosity and sounding relieved that they were not being recycled for his own use. As it was, Ron and Hermione had been bonded in secret at the Ministry, before wedding in a Muggle ceremony at Gretna Green. Hermione, it seemed, was harbouring a lot of unexpectedly romantic ideas under her bookish exterior. She had apparently always wanted to elope to Scotland and be married in her grandmother’s wedding dress. Ginny had copies of their wedding photographs on her dressing table and her friend…her sister looked beautiful in the long-sleeved lace gown. Ron, on the other hand, having whole-heartedly embraced the idea of a Muggle ceremony, had shown up to his wedding in beach shorts and sandals that he had found in a tourist shop and looked like a complete git. It was a perfect wedding portrait. Her mother also had copies of the snapshots, neatly displayed alongside an enormous portrait of Bill and Fleur, taken directly after their vows and professionally framed in a studio in Paris, and a small photograph with curled edges that still made Ginny’s eyes burn, of Remus and Tonks on the day of their marriage, the one so anxious and tired, dressed in his best robes and holding tightly to his new wife’s hand, the other so joyful and hopeful and pink. The family wedding pictures were all equally prized by her mum, despite her lingering disappointment in Ron and Hermione’s haste. And now, it appeared, she wanted another one to add to her collection. It hadn’t been so bad when her embarrassing hints had been solely and privately directed at Ginny, delivered with a raised eyebrow over their weekly cup of tea or in whispers at family dinners. Annoying, yes, but in comparison to what had happened last night… With a vicious snap of her teeth, Ginny furthered dismembered her unfortunate snack. An unlocking spell clicked in the front door and she looked up as Demelza Robins stumbled inside, three bags in each hand and her Nimbus Millenia broomstick slung over her shoulder. She made a beeline for the couch, shedding her burdens as she went and adding to the generally chaotic state of their home, and collapsed into its depths with a relieved sigh. “We really need to get on to the landlord about the Floo portal,” she gasped out, rubbing at a cramp in her calf. She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing back a handful of disheveled strands. “Or I need to find myself a new boyfriend with more upper body strength and a stronger inclination to cater to my every whim than Mike seems to possess,” she added, offering Ginny a quick grin, which faded to a concerned frown as she took in the ferocity of her friend’s scowl. “Nice face, Ginny. What’s Harry done now?” Ginny crumbled the remaining leg of her gingerbread wizard in her hand and frowned at her roommate, teammate and current source of irritation. “What do you mean, what’s Harry done now?” she asked a bit sharply, aware that she was being a right cow. She reminded herself that Demelza’s bloody alarm clock had woken her up at five that morning, two hours before they were due at training, and felt a bit more justified in the unfair direction of her bad mood. She’d told her friend that antique talking clocks were surprisingly cheap only because they tended to get a bit absent-minded about the time and start shouting in their old age, and that buying one was not so much thrifty as bloody stupid, but had she listened? No. “You don’t have to make it sound like we argue all the time or that there’s something wrong with Harry. He’s lovely when he isn’t being a total prat.” “Oh, I know,” Demelza interrupted her loudly, her grin deepening. “I’ve heard. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-The-Perfect-Boyfrien d, a paragon of manners, chivalry and personal hygiene, dripping with galleons, unselfish in the sack, able to slice open his stacks of fan mail with that chiseled jaw while simultaneously helping little old ladies onto their brooms, punctual, polite, generous, kind to babies and kittens…” She ducked, laughing and exclaiming with disgust as a small moist ball of squashed gingerbread sailed toward her nose. Ginny giggled in spite of herself, reaching almost absently for her Firebolt Pro and its maintenance kit, both presents from Harry on her eighteenth birthday. He had always been generous, she thought, thinking of him a little more fondly than she had been for most of that day, even if he couldn’t lay claim to any quality of punctuality and his stance on personal hygiene had suffered a bit after two years of overnight Auror assignments with her brother. “I don’t know why you kept up with the Quidditch,” she said sarcastically, expertly snipping at the ends of her broomstick and surveying them with a critical eye, “when you’re obviously so suited to a life on the comedy route. You could ask George for a job at the Wheezes if you like, entertaining the punters.” “How is George?” Demelza asked after a slightly strained pause, her voice suddenly serious and her brown eyes concerned. “He’s back home, then?” Snip, snip, snip. Ginny carefully kept her attention on her task. Last time she’d been doing a trimming, at the Burrow, she’d been distracted by little Teddy tripping over a footstool and had accidentally cut one side to a lopsided angle. She’d had to take it to a specialist in Diagon Alley and his bill had eaten into her rent money that week. With the qualifying match against the Magpies coming up, she couldn’t afford to have her gear in less than perfect condition. Snip. “He came home a couple of weeks ago.” Ginny laid her palm against the end of the bristles and measured the slope of the cut. “Sorry, I meant to tell you, but things got a bit hectic at practice. He’s…doing fine.” Her voice was slightly flat and Demelza took the hint, changing the subject. “So, what has Harry done to deserve the addition of ‘total prat’ to his lengthy list of titles?” She leaned further back into the couch cushions, crossing one leg over the other and raising her foot to admire the white sheen of her new trainers. “Or should I wait until the Prophet comes out in the morning and find out with the rest of the country?” Ginny rolled her eyes. One time, she had held off on sharing important news with Demelza, who had marched into her room before breakfast a day later, pulled the covers down to Ginny’s feet and smacked her over the head with their copy of the daily rag, demanding to know why she had to hear about her roommate’s plans to spend their summer training leave with her brother in Romania from the bloody paper. In truth, it had completely slipped her mind at the time to let Demelza know about Charlie’s offer of a month at the dragon reserve. It had been hard enough telling Harry that she wanted, that she needed, some time away. Neither of them had voiced the thought that she meant, among other things, time away from him, but they had both understood her meaning. It had just all been a bit much. After the initial numb ritual of attending each funeral and coming home to sit in silent gatherings, listening to Kingsley Shacklebolt’s daily address on the wireless and avoiding looking at one another, her family’s cold disbelief had begun to fade into more openly expressed grief. Ginny was not big on crying if she could possibly help it and sitting around in a room full of depressed people gave her far too much time to think. Instead, she had stuck her chin in the air with totally artificial defiance and got on with things, looking toward the future with an almost painful determination. She’d finished her last year at school with a copy of the regulations of the Association of Professional Quidditch spellotaped to the wall behind her headboard, already aware of what she wanted to do. Her ambition to become an Auror had died in the final battle alongside Tonks. She was tired of fighting and of loss. She had, she thought, more of her mother in her than she’d previously thought. In the wake of the first war, Mum had found her strength and her sanity in a ramshackle house with her husband at her side and a child on each hip. Ginny would find hers in the sky, on her broom. She had trained alone, before meals, between classes, after dusk had set and again before the sun rose, for months. On a frosty morning at the beginning of winter, a second broomstick had swooped to join her high above the pitch, Demelza red with cold and set with a sense of purpose, clutching her Quaffle to her chest and squarely meeting Ginny’s surprised gaze. The two of them had practiced all year, like the bereaved fiends that they were, paying only obligatory attention to their N.E.W.T. study and meeting at the common room wireless every morning at half five to listen to the Quidditch news. In May, only weeks before Ginny’s final exams, the newscaster had announced the retirement of the celebrated Chasers Annika and Maria Foster, with both sisters planning to leave the Holyhead Harpies to pursue Ministerial careers. Try-outs for their replacements would be held at the end of July. Ginny had said nothing of her plans to her family or to Harry until August, when the owl had arrived with an official offer and an unsigned contract clutched in its beak. Her mother had been appalled; her father, Bill and Charlie were impressed. Percy, who had never considered Quidditch to be anything but a hobby, and a rather poor one at that, had been openly disapproving. George had been too drunk to care and Ron had asked, in loud tones, “What’s wrong with the Cannons, then?” Hermione had smiled weakly at the prospect of attending obligatory matches and Harry had immediately gone out and bought her the new Firebolt. All in all, Ginny thought it had gone down rather well. Demelza, having no family members to inform except a great-great-grandfather who periodically mistook her for the Queen of Scotland, had immediately taken her own contract to Professor McGonagall’s office and informed the headmistress that she would not be returning to complete her studies. Within three weeks of joining the team, she had met Michael Warbeck, a Quidditch correspondent for the Daily Prophet, and had finally begun to smile again. Ginny had been thrilled to see the budding return of her friend’s happiness, but she herself had not taken to the changes in her life with as much ease as she had anticipated. After the final moments of the war, after one year of bone-deep fear and one day of shattering loss, it had been difficult to deal with an aftermath that seemed nothing more than a confused jumble of questions. George… What will George do? Perhaps we ought to offer to have Teddy at least one day a week, what do you think? Do you reckon Ginny would come away for a couple of days? She looks so pale… I should have protected them all, Arthur. Why couldn’t I protect them all? Have you seen the papers today? You’d think that with the mess at the Ministry, they’d have better things to print than that rubbish about Ginny and Harry, wouldn’t you? They say that Kingsley Shacklebolt is the best person for the job in the interim, that he’ll set things right at the Ministry. How? How will he do that? It’s all such shite… In her first match for the Harpies, playing against Puddlemere in a steady drizzle, with the cheers of her family resounding in her ears, she had beaten by two goals the record of Maria Foster in a county play-off. The media frenzy that constantly surrounded Harry and their relationship had increased ten-fold. They were engaged, expecting, arguing, cheating, eloping and snogging one another in a different newspaper every day. Six weeks before the team’s summer leave, George had landed in the Poisons and Substance Abuse ward at St. Mungo’s, the Felix Felicis fumes oozing from the pores of his skin. Ginny had snapped. Charlie, summoned home to his brother’s bedside, had taken one look at her and applied for a second Apparition visa to Romania. Harry had wanted to come with her, but she had refused, biting her lip and turning away from the look on his face. She had understood when he had left, she’d said, even if she hadn’t been happy about it. She had known that he had things to do, things that didn’t include her. Now she needed time away. He had to understand. He did. Of all people, Harry understood the need to come to terms with the past and the present. He had accompanied her to the International Apparition Office and watched her leave, with a scowl on his brow and a resigned nod. In the confines of a hot, dusty campsite that smelled like dragon dung and regularly trembled with the fiery roars of its larger inhabitants, Ginny had regained her footing and woken herself up. She had eventually cried, once, in the privacy of her tent, for Fred, Remus and Tonks, for Colin, George, Teddy, and her parents, for Harry and herself. Then she had rubbed the tears from her cheeks with her fists, lifted her head high with genuine resolve and done her best to convince Charlie that if she could pull off a Wronski Feint with her eyes closed, riding a Horntail would be a walk in the park. She was all right. It was still bittersweet to see baby Teddy, who seemed to have settled on a shock of turquoise hair, to the exasperation of his grandmother, although Ginny did smile to see the single tuft of bright pink above his wispy left eyebrow. She vividly remembered the last time that Tonks and Remus had come to eat at the Burrow. Tonks had been hugely round in the belly, impatient with her husband’s fussing and frustrated with a ‘pregnancy glitch’ in her morphing. Nestled among the halo of pink curls had been a turquoise streak that, no matter how intense her concentration, refused to alter its hue. Ginny wondered if Teddy would still be sporting that very visible connection to his mother when he was old enough to start at Hogwarts. She suspected that it would leave him open to teasing. She also suspected that he wouldn’t care if it did. It was still painful to think about George and what he was going through. Even in her flat, she was unable to break the habit of checking her bed each night for any unpleasant surprises left by the twins. It was always a disappointment when her legs slid cleanly under the covers and her fingers failed to encounter a Puking Pustule under the pillow. The other day she had caught a glimpse of George out of the corner of her eye, standing in front of the kitchen mirror in the Burrow, and the sight of his reflected double had sent a jolt through her middle. But she was doing all right. She had regained enough of her old self that she could laugh off most of the shite that still appeared in the morning papers on every breakfast table in Britain. If a reporter got too pushy and found himself with a nostril-load of Bat Bogeys, it was his own fault. Her family was moving forward, one step at a time; her new bank account at Gringotts was steadily filling with the galleons that she received on a weekly basis for mucking about on a broom, and she was finally with Harry. She was really with Harry, for the first time since she’d known him. He no longer pulled away or looked over his shoulder when they were together. They didn’t have to hide their feelings or put up a public pretense. When she looked at him, he looked back with an open expression that sent shivers down to her toes. That was, however, when she saw him at all. Despite their very different workplaces, they were both in the same situation. They were recent school leavers, struggling to establish a sure grip on the career ladder and ascend it as quickly as possible. In Harry’s case, it was a necessity that he work his way up to a position of earned authority in a short amount of time. There was so much that needed to be done in the total shambles of the Ministry and he had flatly refused Kingsley Shacklebolt’s offer of an instant promotion to the higher ranks of the Auror Department. Harry might have won them the war, but he was also Harry. He would never try to take the easy route. Ginny was equally ambitious, determined to draw recognition to her performance and not her highly exaggerated sex life. She had grown up with six older brothers who had coddled her, tormented her, and left her out of every possible activity. She’d had it with being sidelined. It was not the publicity that she craved, but the absence of the qualifier before her name. No more “Ron’s little sister” or “Harry Potter’s girlfriend”. Just Ginny. She had moved out of the Burrow and had not moved in with Harry, despite his slightly arrogant assumption that she would do just that. Eventually, yes, she wanted to live with him, but for now, she was feeling independent and it was wonderful. Unfortunately, not living with Harry meant that she was not actually seeing a lot of him at the moment. Their schedules might have been jinxed by one of his jealous groupies at the Ministry, for all she knew, since they had only been off at the same time for one weekend out of the past four. They were both often away overnight, on assignment or on tour, and their single shared dinner each week had been wrangled through bribery and Ginny’s blatant lie about a standing appointment. She missed him constantly and after a particularly long, lonely night two weeks earlier had briefly considered backing down on her refusal to move into his flat in London. By the time she had woken up to the sun shining through the gap in her curtains, she had changed her mind. She wasn’t ready to live with him, not yet. And she certainly wasn’t ready to bloody well marry him, even if he did think that was the reason she was holding out. Git. Obviously the stream of awful girls who delivered coffee to him in the mornings, even though he didn’t even drink coffee, and practically salivated over the cups according to Ron, who thought it was all a right laugh (git!), were giving Harry the mistaken impression that every girl in England was just gagging to get his ring on her finger. Get over yourself, Potter. “Well?” Ginny looked up and met Demelza’s gaze. The other witch was obviously trying to project an expression of sympathy, but it had stopped short of the mark and fallen more into the realms of amusement. “Have I ever given the impression,” she asked crossly, putting aside her Firebolt and folding her arms across her chest, “that my every waking thought is just consumed with the subject of when Harry Potter is going to get off his arse and pop the question?” Demelza blinked. “What?” “Harry,” Ginny said between clenched teeth, “seems to believe that I’ve been conspiring with my mother on the best way to haul him up the aisle. You know what Mum’s been like recently, harping on about the best flour to egg ratio for wedding cakes and whether a bride who is somewhat lacking in the bosom department can carry off robes with a sweetheart neckline.” She broke off to glare at Demelza, who ignored the warning sign and continued to utter suspicious squeaking noises behind her raised fingers. “It’s not funny. It’s a bloody pain in the… As if I don’t get enough of that shite from the Prophet. The only saving grace has been that she wasn’t dropping her little hints in front of Harry.” “Surprisingly discreet of Molly,” Demelza agreed wryly, continuing her rubbish attempts to look duly sympathetic of her friend’s plight. “Until last night when she put a plate of bangers and mash in front of him and asked if he was intending to ask for my hand this year or if she should hold off on booking the village church until next year.” Demelza winced. “You are joking,” she said with more hope than conviction, letting out a low whistle when Ginny responded with a disgusted snort. “Blimey. Mike went over all shifty when I looked twice at a set of white robes at Madam Malkin’s last month. But blindsiding a bloke with an empty stomach and nowhere to run… Did Harry’s appetite make a rapid retreat, by any chance?” she asked, getting to her feet. “Hold on a tick. This has suddenly become a conversation that is crying out for a biscuit. I need to fortify myself.” “I have no idea,” Ginny said flatly, watching her bustle about in the kitchen looking for anything edible and chocolate. “Perhaps his appetite was the problem. Perhaps he had a sudden fancy for fish and chips and it was the sight of Mum’s sausages that had him Disapparating faster than a bosky house-elf. And here I was thinking that choking on a bottle of butterbeer, falling over his own feet and pissing off to Merlin-knows-where was the gormless twat’s subtle way of implying that no, I don’t fancy getting hitched to Ginny, ta very much. Silly me!” Demelza handed her an enormous chocolate biscuit in silence. “I mean, honestly! Men.” Ginny unconsciously echoed Hermione’s standard deprecation of the masculine species. “You should have seen the look on his face, Mel. He was still staring at me accusingly when he bolted. It’s not as if I was in cahoots with Mum. I wasn’t standing there with her shoulder-to-shoulder, shoving my wand between his nostrils and demanding that he make an honest woman of me, was I? I gave her a right telling off.” Demelza leaned one hip against the kitchen doorway and took a thoughtful bite from her own biscuit. “That’s not why you didn’t want to live with him, then? You aren’t holding out for marriage?” Ginny rounded on her, eyes flashing. “Do you actually think…” Demelza literally backed off, beating a hasty and comically exaggerated retreat behind the couch. She shoved her biscuit between her teeth and raised both hands, cowering down until Ginny’s stormy fury subsided into a reluctant smile. “I think,” she eventually responded, after retrieving her slightly soggy snack and examining it with care, “that you’re tired and sore from a bitch of a week at training and that you naturally miss your boyfriend, whom you haven’t spent quality time with for weeks. I also think that you’re angry that your mother guilt-tripped the two of you into spending your only night together this week having dinner at the Burrow and that the whole situation was rife to turn sour. Not that I’m saying that Harry didn’t behave like a prat,” she added quickly, in the interests of sisterly solidarity and peaceful cohabitation. Ginny stared at her silently for a moment, before releasing a loud sigh and sinking down onto the squat footstool by the fireplace. “Do you have to be so…reasonable?” she asked ruefully, snapping the edge of her biscuit and popping it into her mouth. There seemed to be a direct correlation between fights with one’s boyfriend and an excessive consumption of biscuits. “I was building up to a really spectacular hex there. I prefer it when people don’t point out that I’m overreacting. It’s very deflating.” “Bat-Bogey?” Demelza asked with interest, through a mouthful of crumbs, and Ginny gave her a quick grin. “No, I’ve been thinking that I need to expand my repertoire. I learnt a couple of brilliant ones during sixth year and I haven’t had the chance to practice them since Draco Malfoy stopped loitering around Diagon Alley and skived off to France.” “Yes, pity, that,” her friend said musingly. “I’d quite fancy him if his eyes weren’t so close together, poor bloke.” “Yes, Malfoy’s lack of facial symmetry is clearly his most unappealing quality. A snide attitude, uncomfortably close relationship with his mother and years of picking on the vulnerable that ended in an attempt to murder the Headmaster are just minor character flaws, I suppose?” “I said I could fancy him, that’s all,” Demelza said loftily. “I was thinking of casual shag rather than husband status.” “And once again the conversation circles back to marriage,” Ginny grunted, her eyes losing their ironic gleam. “I don’t know why everyone seems to be dead keen on weddings. All of the married people I know are constantly having silly arguments about whose turn it is to cook, and who was late to meet whom, and whose fault it is that they haven’t had sex in three months.” She couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter. “Harry and I have enough of those already.” Demelza eyed her frowningly. “Who argues about their lack of a sex life in front of you?” She winced. “Not Molly and Arthur. Please tell me it’s not Molly and Arthur.” “We’re happy,” Ginny continued, ignoring her. “Most of the time, we’re happy. When we see each other, that is, and when Harry manages not to be a total wanker. Why does everybody think that we have to have more right away? What’s next, three babies and an early retirement? I might as well start knotting the apron strings now.” “You don’t want to marry Harry, then?” Demelza asked after a moment. Her eyes were genuinely curious. “Not ever?” “Of course I want to marry Harry.” Ginny’s tone was matter-of-fact, even surprised. “At least, I always want to be with him and I suppose I assumed that would mean marriage, one day. I love him.” She shrugged, unself-conscious in her feelings. “But not now, Mel. Harry, he’s had to grow up so quickly. This is our chance to just…be young. Be free.” “Be not constantly pursued by a homicidal Dark Lord and his sociopathic minions?” Demelza’s tone was understanding beneath the assumed lightness. Ginny smiled weakly. “Something like that.” “If I’ve got this right,” Demelza said, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at her, “you would like to marry Harry, but at some uncertain point in the future, when you’ve had your fill of running about like the untrammeled bright young things that you are, the novelty of Voldemort kicking the bucket has worn off, and you’re both well on your way to a Ministry pension plan and middle-age spread. But you’re in a strop because Harry clearly feels the same way?” “It wasn’t the fact that he didn’t immediately drop to the floor and pull out a ring,” Ginny retorted, “although he didn’t have to look quite so revolted by the prospect. It was the way he turned on me, like he assumed I’d put Mum up to it. If I have a problem with our relationship or if there’s something that I need, I talk to him first. He knows that. He should know that.” “Ginny, hero boy or not, Harry’s a bloke,” said Demelza bluntly. “A bloke whose future mother-in-law sprung the intentions speech on him in front of his girlfriend and presumably several of her large and volatile older brothers. I’m not surprised he was a bit miffed. Granted, it was a little rude to Disapparate without even thanking your mum for the chips…” “He did actually,” Ginny recalled grudgingly, feeling an irrational surge of renewed irritation at that show of good manners. “According to the spring issue of Witch Quarterly, confronting your man with matrimonial pressure ranks at number six on the top ten list of ways to drive a wedge between you. Your family engaging him in embarrassing or awkward conversation came in at number nine. Harry got hit with the double whammy. I wouldn’t count on him showing his face for at least a week,” Demelza finished authoritatively, in her best tones of worldly wisdom. Her confident prediction was slightly undermined by the sudden appearance of Harry himself, Apparating into their living room without warning. “Of course, we are talking about the pair who spent their first anniversary in the Chamber of Secrets, for Merlin’s sake. What was it? Laying various demons to rest? Is that what the kids are calling it now? I’m not sure that you fit the definition of Witch Quarterly’s ‘average couple’. Disregard everything I said. The two of you are a law unto yourselves. Hello, Harry. I hear you’ve been a bit of a pillock,” Demelza greeted him cheerfully, finally pausing to take a breath. Harry ran the fingers of one hand through already bedraggled black hair and stared at her rather helplessly. His mouth opened briefly, but no words emerged. Ginny was almost moved to sympathy. Demelza could be a bit much to take after a sleepless night. She was gratified to note that Harry had apparently shared that affliction. His skin was pale-hued and smudged dark beneath his heavy green eyes, and he bore the tense, decidedly cross expression of someone who could snap at the slightest of provocations. He had not, it appeared, arrived full of suitably groveling apology. It didn’t bode well for an impending reconciliation. Noting what looked to be a chocolate stain caught in the stubble above his upper lip, Ginny rolled her eyes. Obviously he’d gone to Ron and Hermione’s flat last night to drown his sorrows. Having used the other couple as a last resort sanctuary herself on more than one occasion, she knew that it was a solution more likely to result in the mother of all hangovers than any sense of inner peace. Her brother, rubbish when faced with any sort of plea for emotional advice, inevitably resorted to offering chocolate frogs, firewhiskey and a few awkward pats on the back. Poor Ron. So well-meaning, so utterly hopeless. “Demelza,” Harry finally acknowledged her, his voice dryly polite and his gaze focused sharply on Ginny. Her chin jolted up a fraction. Demelza glanced between them, her face a picture of resigned exasperation. “Right,” she said abruptly. “Numerous vague tasks are calling my name from the safety of my bedroom. So that’s where I’ll be, in my bedroom. Far too busy to overhear anything that might be going on out here.” She paused with her hand on the door knob. “Oh, and Ginny, if there’s any actual bloodshed, please try to direct it toward the kitchen. It’s a hell of job getting stains out of this carpet. Good luck, Harry.” She disappeared with an ostentatious slam of the door, although Ginny, waiting, was amused to note that after a few seconds the knob slowly turned and just a fraction of light appeared. There was a moment of total silence, broken when Harry let out an irritated snort. “That girl is a cracking Quidditch player, but it’d drive me up the wall to live with her.” A faint exclamation sounded from behind him and Ginny coughed. Harry glared at her. “Reckon she doesn’t bother you much, though, since you’re so set on staying here.” “Demelza’s my best mate!” Ginny snapped. “Of course she doesn’t bother me.” Not an entirely true statement, particularly given her friend’s penchant for dodgy alarm clocks, but Harry had a lot of nerve coming around and picking another fight with her. “Are we actually going to have an argument about this? Do I need to start taking pot shots at your best mate? Because, believe me, I’ve got plenty of material if we’re talking about Ron. Hermione’s not such an obvious target, but…” “You’re my best mate!” Harry fired back, his cheeks suffusing with ruddy colour. Ginny closed her lips over the snarky comment that was about burst forth and looked at him warily. His face was still angry, but there was an odd glint in his eyes — hurt? “You’re my best mate, Ginny,” he repeated, and his voice trailed into an almost bewildered silence. Ginny restlessly tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and folded her arms across her chest. For once, she was equally speechless. Having spent most of morning training with her eyes on the Quaffle and her mind firmly rehearsing what she was going to say to Harry when they met up to thrash it out, she was suddenly a bit adrift. This wasn’t going quite how she had imagined. “Well…you’re my best mate, too,” she said more quietly, if still a bit coldly. The memory of Harry’s reaction when her mum had all but popped the question to him on her behalf was still fresh and it still rankled. “More than that.” “More than that,” Harry repeated flatly, still giving her that peculiar look. “Well, obviously more than that,” Ginny bit out defensively. “I’m not shagging Demelza, am I?” Another hastily suppressed snort issued from the direction of Demelza’s bedroom. Harry ignored both the rude interruption and Ginny’s acerbic retort. He was tense and serious. “We’re friends,” he said. “We’re sleeping together and I’m in love with you.” It was such a strange, bald remark that Ginny was unable to think of a word in response. Her eyes searched his face. “And you’re in love with me,” he continued roughly. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he set his teeth. “But…fuck.” He suddenly swore, startling her. “I’m just…tired, Ginny.” A weight settled in the pit of Ginny’s stomach, heavy and sickening. She pressed her lips together. Her hands caught nervously at the loose threads in the pockets of her jeans. She wound one about the tip of her index finger, pulling it taut until it broke. “Tired,” she said, her voice coming out as an embarrassing croak. She swallowed, hard. “Tired — of us, Harry?” “I’m tired of being the one to want more. I want everything, Ginny, and you…you don’t seem to want anything that I can give you.” Ginny’s hands ceased their movements and she stood perfectly still. “Harry, are you breaking up with me?” she asked, clearly and loudly, before her courage failed her and the question became impossible. Harry scowled and his head jerked slightly to the side. His stance was frustrated, impatient. “Don’t talk rubbish, Ginny. ‘Course I’m not.” His tone was that of the archetypal male dealing with a daft female and while it would usually have earned him a quick sock to the side of the head, Ginny was, in this instance, far too relieved to react. “Last night…” he began, and the tension of that awful moment in which her whole body had been physically braced for a blow spilled over into a renewed burst of temper. “Yes, last night,” she said hotly. “Merlin, Harry, I know it was awful, but to just leave... You swore to me that you would never do that again. We agreed, didn’t we, that we were both done running…” She stopped. How unutterably pathetic. Because that was it, wasn’t it? That was the crux of the matter. He’d run out. If Harry didn’t want to marry her, that was bloody fine. She still thought he could have been a bit more tactful about it, but Demelza was right. She wasn’t the sort of silly tart who sat about moping because her boyfriend couldn’t be brought to the point. What did bother her, irrationally or not, was that he had left. She hadn’t realized until last night that while there were no conditions attached to her love for Harry and no limits to her respect and admiration for him, her trust was a little more fragile where their relationship was concerned. She remembered, suddenly, a conversation with Tonks over an illicit glass of mead, pinched from the kitchen of the Burrow to fortify their nerves the night that the first installment of Potterwatch had beamed live across England. Your love for him doesn’t change, Tonks had said, in a few snatched words before the explosion of the Dark Mark across the horizon sky had brought them running to the window. “But you never quite forget that he left. If a man runs once because he’s a coward, it would be easier to trust that he would come back — because if he loves you, then coming back is the easy thing to do. But if he leaves because he’s good, because he thinks it’s right…how can you be certain that he won’t leave again when the Noble Cause rears its ugly head? Well, no revolutionary uprisings against errant Dark Lords were rearing their ugly heads, thank Merlin, but it seemed that her same old doubts were not quite dead and buried. She had wanted — still wanted more than anything, really — a proper relationship with Harry, on an even footing. He no longer had the excuse, she’d told him once, crossly, of the ‘Chosen One’. There were no more questionable Seers wafting about, reeking of sherry and uttering prophecies of solitary journeys. Nor could he play the age card, because she was over seventeen, only thirteen months his junior and quite frankly more mature than he and Ron on their best days. From now on, he didn’t try to protect her from life and they discussed their problems together. They had each had their own space and time to think and to act, and now they were done walking out on each other. Except that Harry was still closing himself off from her at the first sign of trouble, however ridiculous and trivial the cause of that strife. True, running away to Ron’s flat was hardly the ends of the earth, but it was the principle of the thing. “I know it was bloody embarrassing, Harry,” Ginny said bluntly. “But despite what you might think, I didn’t put Mum up to it! You would know that if you’d stuck around and given me the chance to explain. She had no right to put you on the spot like that and I gave her a right telling off for it. Just because everyone we’ve ever met, seen or spoken to seems to have weddings on the brain, it doesn’t mean that I’m lying awake at night dreaming of ghastly bridal robes. I have no desire whatsoever to get married any time soon,” she said, rather too emphatically if Harry’s immediate expression of offense was any judge. “I mean…” “I’m well aware of that,” he said tightly. “And if I’d been in the dark over your reluctance to commit yourself to anything more definite than a weekly date with a takeaway, the look on your face when Molly mentioned marriage would have been a good clue that you aren’t exactly dead keen on the idea.” “Oh, and you are, I suppose?” Ginny shot back. The conversation had shot off on an entirely unexpected tangent and she was beginning to suspect, horridly, that she might have got rather the wrong end of the stick. Naturally, her next instinct was to attack. “You want to get married? Right now, with only one foot on the career ladder and the ink barely dry on the peace declaration.” “Yeah,” Harry said, not belligerently, but firmly. He met her gaze unflinchingly. “I reckon I do.” In the quiet stillness that followed his proclamation, Ginny swore she could hear the faint rasp of Demelza’s breathing and the tick-tock-tick-bang-wee-hoo of the loathed alarm clock, currently stuffed beneath a layer of tissues in the rubbish bin. Oh, bollocks. Had he just proposed? “I…” Ginny shook her head slightly, instinctively. “What?” “Don’t worry,” Harry said, a bit frostily. “That wasn’t a proposal. I was going to ask you on your birthday. Thought we might have had a picnic out where the old Quidditch pitch used to be at Hogwarts. Ron said I ought to write something down, since I’m so rubbish at speeches, but I reckoned you wouldn’t mind what I said, no matter how much I mucked it up. And d’you know, I really thought you’d say yes. S’pose I was a bit of an arrogant git, wasn’t I? I ought to be grateful that Molly saved me the trouble last night.” He didn’t look grateful. He looked, as she’d thought, completely hurt. And it made her heart crumble. “Harry,” she said quietly, reaching out to touch his arm. He took a quick decisive step away from her. “I have to go into work,” he said, his eyes no longer meeting hers. He was rolling his wand in one large fist. “I’ve got a double shift with the squad in Doncaster. I’ll come over tomorrow if Kingsley’s debrief doesn’t run past midnight.” Ginny tucked her hands into her back pockets. “Don’t you think you think we should talk about this?” Complex green eyes fixed her with one penetrating stare. “I don’t reckon there’s much to talk about,” Harry said quietly. “Is there?” The pop as he disappeared was almost drowned out by the screech of the completed laundry load in the wash basin. Clean, we’re clean, sang the clothes in high bubbly tones. She’d forgotten that annoying side effect to the wash cycle incantation. They wouldn’t shut up now until she put them on a dry spin. She continued to stand there silently, barely noticing when an unusually quiet Demelza emerged from her bedroom, touched two fingertips to Ginny’s elbow and went to finish the washing. Drying, we’re drying, sang the uniform kits. Gone, he’s gone, said a little voice in Ginny’s head. “He ’s gone.” Ginny slammed the front door behind her and dropped her kit bag on the floor with a thump. She could hear herself saying the words, but she couldn’t quite believe it. “Harry’s gone.” “Thank Merlin, you’re home,” Demelza garbled, appearing from the bathroom with a pair of heels in hand. A glamour wand was jutting at a strange angle from her head, caught up in a mass of half-formed curls. She had one fishnet stocking rolled up to her thigh, the other bunched around her ankle, and was wearing three different shades of lipstick in test streaks on her arm and absolutely none on her lips. Ginny noted every peculiar facet of her friend’s appearance, but was too preoccupied to give it much thought. “They’re most awfully sorry, but they’re afraid that they can’t tell me when Harry will be back. That’s classified information. All they can say is that, barring any unfortunate and unforeseen incidents, he’ll hopefully be home in time for his birthday. His birthday. At the end of July. That’s weeks away! Harry’s gone on assignment without a word and providing he doesn’t actually die in the process, he may not be back for bloody weeks… And what are you doing, Demelza? Stop pulling at me,” Ginny snapped, jerking her arm free of the other witch’s strangle-hold. It was bloody unbelievable. All right, so he had a right to be upset. She’d made a complete bollocks of things earlier in the week. She felt dreadful about it and had been prepared to give him his space after her initial attempt at opening the communication lines had failed miserably. As soon as she had roused herself the night of the fiasco of the almost-proposal, a sincerely apologetic Owl had been sent off into the night with a very sleepy and reluctant Perseus, the beautiful grey owl bequeathed to Ginny in Tonks’s will. It had been late afternoon the next day before a response had arrived. She had known there would be one. Whatever terms they were on, she thought Harry was probably incapable of ignoring a direct plea from her. His note was abrupt and monosyllabic, however, and he clearly was in no mood to talk. She knew quite well that Harry was likely to retreat further under emotional pressure, so had decided to leave well enough alone and do penance for the rest of the week by chewing her nails to the quick and botching every easy pass that came her way at practice, waiting on edge for him to come and see her. Hermione, applied to for advice over their weekly hour at the Tea Emporium, had firmly agreed with her hands-off strategy. Harry was more sensitive to rejection than the average man, she thought, since he had experienced it on a daily basis while growing up with the Dursleys. He was far too sensible to let that neglect dictate his adult behaviour and moral code, but the fact remained that he had never had the solid foundation of a happy childhood to fall back on when he experienced a set-back. Even with all of the losses and the responsibilities piled onto his shoulders at work and in the public eye, the months since the Fall of Voldemort had probably been the happiest and most carefree of Harry’s life. He was secure in his family, prospering at his job and believed himself to be in a secure romantic relationship. No man would enjoy having his girlfriend violently reject a marriage proposal before it was even put into words, Hermione had finished bluntly, but Harry probably had assumed that Ginny would want the same things as he did. He and Ron have always been a bit thick where women are concerned. Every word of Hermione’s very long and rather condescending speech had contributed to Ginny’s feelings of guilt and frustration. Frustration, because as graceless as she had been in acquainting Harry with the fact and as much as she hated hurting him, she really was not ready to get married. Her mother was not going to push her into a wedding dress before she could be happy and proud to be wearing it, and she wasn’t going to be guilt-tripped into hasty action just to appease Harry’s wounded feelings. She did know, though, that things couldn’t go on the way that they had been, nor did she want them to. She was sick and tired of their clashing schedules, hasty meals and snatched kisses. He was right. They needed more than that. Not everything, as he’d put it, not yet. But they had both been through enough to recognize the priorities in life and it was long past time that they acted on that. She was ready and willing to help put things right. Harry, on the other hand, had buggered off on a potentially lethal mission without leaving her so much as a scribbled note. It rather put his disappearing act from the Burrow into the shade. “Are you even listening to me?” Demelza was shaking her arm from side to side. Her usually laidback tones were shrill. “Please, Ginny. Please say that you’ll come.” “Come?” Ginny repeated blankly, blinking and staring at her. “Come where?” She walked over to the couch and sank slowly down onto the cushions. He had better bloody well not get himself killed. She had a plethora of particularly nasty hexes with his name on them. “I knew you weren’t listening,” Demelza said accusingly. She yanked the glamour wand from her hair, hard enough to pull out several dark strands. “I need you to come out to dinner with Mike and his cousin.” “That’s all right, I’m not very hungry,” Ginny said automatically, her fingers twisting anxiously. Of course he would be all right. He’d single-handedly battled and conquered the most evil wizard in living memory. Only he wasn’t curse-proof, whatever he sometimes appeared to think. All it would take was a single spell or a failed shield charm… And he hadn’t even said goodbye. “Ginny,” Demelza bit out through clenched teeth, “I don’t care if you order a single lettuce leaf or a twelve pound steak. I need you to come out to dinner with us.” Ginny focused on her properly for the first time. It was difficult to do otherwise when her friend’s fingernails were buried in the flesh of her forearm. “Why do you want me to come along on your date?” she asked, frowning. “And why would I want to come along on your date, for that matter? I’ve been out in public with you and Mike before and I really don’t have the stomach to play gooseberry to love’s young dream tonight. I remember what you were like, thanks, gawking at one another over the salads and then doing a bunk and leaving me with the bill.” “I’ve apologized for that,” Demelza said coldly. Her grip on Ginny increased in pressure. “You don’t understand. This is the first time that Mike’s cousin has been able to come to visit and apparently she has serious sway over the rest of the family. I suppose she must be a bit of a dragon, but he’s fond of her. I have to make a good impression and you know what I’m like when I’m nervous. You remember what happened when I had lunch at his parents’ house! This is important, Ginny, please.” “Demelza, I’m sorry, this just isn’t a good night for…” “His mother thinks I’m frivolous and silly and that I don’t deserve him.” “Which is total rubbish, you do know that?” Ginny temporarily forgot her own woes in her indignation. “I don’t know how to cook, I buy second-hand robes because I like them, not because I can’t afford anything better, and I never sat my NEWTs. His parents are never going to approve of me without a little persuasion. And Mike says that his cousin is a huge Quidditch fan and she’s very excited about meeting me — and my best friend.” “I don’t see how my coming along is going to help…” “My best friend, whom I love and adore, and who happens to be this woman’s favourite Quidditch player. My best friend, who has been known to charm even Filch into letting her off a detention and who will do her best to keep both of my feet out of my mouth.” “Mel…” Ginny bit her lip. “I’m not trying to play the sympathy card here, but this is my future family we’re talking about. My chance to have a family.” Demelza’s gaze was completely earnest for once. “Mike and I are talking about marriage.” Ginny drew in a slow breath. “That’s great, Demelza,” she said, with total sincerity, proud that her voice remained steady. “I’m so happy for you.” She sighed. “You’re paying for my steak.” H arry was fortunate, Ginny decided a couple of hours later, that Demelza was either a liar or a complete half-wit, because she fully intended to redirect a couple of those pending hexes toward her roommate. A night out with Demelza and Mike was not her idea of a laugh on the best of occasions, as the other couple could rank somewhere with Bill and Fleur on the scale of revolting displays of public affection, and the addition of an elderly maiden Quidditch fanatic had done nothing to make the prospect more attractive. She had been expecting a fairly trying evening, doing her damndest not to think about what Harry might be doing and trying to ensure that Demelza kept the more exuberant side of her personality under wraps until they had at least reached the dessert course. She had not expected to find herself on a double date. Mike’s ‘lady cousin’ was a six foot tall insurance investigator named Daniel with dark hair, grey eyes and the shoulders of a Ministry thug. So far as Ginny could ascertain, he had absolutely no interest in Quidditch whatsoever except as the leading cause of sport-related injuries. And Demelza needn’t have worried about making a good impression, as his attention and admiring gaze had been fixed on Ginny for the last half hour, travelling intermittently between her red hair and the thin straps of her black dress. She smiled politely as he launched into yet another story of the fascinating facets of insurance fraud, which, to be fair, might well be very interesting, but it was taking all of her concentration to sit straight and still, and not to reach over and smack Demelza between the eyes. The bartender arrived a few moments later with a pint of steaming cider in each hand, engaging the attention of the men. Ginny immediately fastened the other witch with a killing stare. “Ginny, I am so sorry!” Demelza hissed, snapping her menu upright to shield them from view. She sounded mortified. “I had no idea. Mike said it would be fun if I could bring a friend and I thought he was trying to make me feel more comfortable. No wonder he was so surprised when I insisted that it be you.” “Demelza!” Ginny said under her breath, “This is a date! Daniel obviously thinks that this is a set-up.” She raised one eyebrow. “He’s remarkably masculine for an elderly female cousin.” “I swear on Merlin’s grave that I did not set this up on purpose,” Demelza said at once, her eyes pleading. “I would never try to make things worse between you and Harry. I just…really needed support tonight and I honestly thought that Mike had referred to his cousin as a woman.” “His name is Daniel!” “I know,” Demelza said. “I thought he said Jane.” Ginny blinked. “You thought he said Ja…” Their waiter arrived with the platters of pizza and garlic bread, Mike and Daniel took over the conversation, and Ginny subsided into an awkward silence. Fiddling with the stem of her wine glass, her gaze wandered rather desperately around the dimly lit restaurant. The glass doors in the rear wall were open, offering diners a view of an empty and slightly dingy courtyard. It was still quite light outside, the sky overcast but the breeze gentle and warm. As she sat there and wondered if it would be a little obvious to excuse herself to the loo and then bolt out the door, rain drops began to fall sporadically, carrying with them the scent of grass and impending summer. Summer had always been Ginny’s favourite season. She hated the cold and could spend hours outdoors, letting the sun paint lighter streaks in her hair and freckles on her skin. And Harry always seemed happier, easier, in summer. She liked nothing better than lazy afternoons at the Burrow, playing Quidditch at twilight while the summer rain drizzled over their broomsticks and down the backs of their shirts. Sneaking to snog with Harry behind the garden shed and ignoring Ron’s exclamations of disgust and jibes to get on with the game. During those hours, there was never a doubt in Ginny’s mind about their relationship. It was only when all of the other rubbish interfered that she began to doubt — which was silly, really, because the common factor was always Harry. Harry didn’t change. He would always try to do the right thing because he was good. And they would both always make mistakes because they were human. She was still furious that he had left without speaking to her first. On the other hand, she was on a date with another man. Ginny was fairly certain that Demelza’s trashy magazines would rate wining and dining another man as a worse offense than skiving off without prior notice. Even if ‘wining and dining’ was a somewhat euphemistic expression for sitting in an aging restaurant, eating soggy crisps and listening to Daniel outline the five most common problems associated with the insurance of sports and leisure equipment. “Of course, if an athlete is partaking in international training, you’re dealing with the regulations of foreign Customs and… Hello, can we help you?” Daniel interrupted his own spiel, his eyes directed curiously over Ginny’s left shoulder. When ridiculous situations like this occurred in books, she was to think later, the protagonist always had a sense of premonition before they turned to look. That was obviously a load of bunk, because upon swinging around to find herself the subject of Harry’s irate scrutiny, she literally dropped her wine glass in surprise. The sound of tinkling glass broke the moment of tension and Harry stepped forward, his face grim. The broken shards sprang up from the table, reforming in the palm of his hand as he performed an impressive non-verbal Reparo. Ginny had only ever seen it pulled off more smoothly by Remus, who had become by circumstances an old hat at that particular spell. “Sorry to interrupt,” Harry said evenly, not sounding in the slightest bit apologetic. “Harry, mate, how’s tricks?” Mike asked, making no attempt to hide his discomfort. He glanced wildly at Demelza while tugging on a lock of shaggy blond hair. “Take a seat.” “Thanks, but I can’t stay.” Harry turned purposefully toward Daniel and stuck out his hand. “Don’t reckon we’ve met.” “No,” Daniel agreed pleasantly. He returned the handshake firmly. “Daniel Scott. How d’you do?” “Harry Potter.” “Right,” Daniel said affably, giving an unexpectedly disarming grin. “I know. I work in insurance investigation for the Ministry. Your name came up fairly often after the events at Hogwarts. There was…quite a lot of damage.” He shrugged pleasantly. “Always think it’s a bit naff to acknowledge someone by name until you’ve actually been introduced, though. I expect you get that sort of thing a lot. Grown blokes who ask you to sign a dinner napkin for a besotted Gran who rejoices in the suspicious name of Stan or enamoured girls pulling out their cameras.” “It can happen, yeah.” Harry’s voice was chilly. “Not often with a bloke who’s out on a date with my girlfriend.” Ginny could feel her face heat as a blush rushed up her neck. “Sorry?” Daniel stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, before his startled gaze darted to her. “Your girlfriend? You two are…” “A couple of right pillocks, I’m starting to think,” Ginny said, making up her mind. She removed the napkin from her lap, carefully folded it and placed it on the table. Standing, she looked at Daniel and said apologetically, “I’m sorry, there was a bit of a misunderstanding tonight.” “So I’ve gathered,” he responded dryly, glancing at Harry’s now impassive face. “I’m in a very, very serious relationship,” Ginny said emphatically, directly at Harry. She frowned at Daniel. “And you’re not an elderly woman named Jane.” “I beg your pardon?” “Never mind,” Demelza broke in hastily. “I’ll explain later. And don’t worry, Ginny, we’ll pick up the tab. I think you’d better take Harry somewhere and have a jolly good talk.” She grinned suddenly. “I’m staying at Mike’s tonight. We don’t want to play gooseberry to love’s young dream, either, and I’ve borne witness to your reconciliations in the past. I’m far too young to see that again.” As she followed Harry outside into the light fall of rain, Ginny thought that ‘love’s young dream’ was a highly inaccurate description of the appearance they presented. They probably looked more like combatants on their way to a duel. Harry was a walking storm cloud, his brows snapped tight over the rims of his glasses and his hands fisted at his sides. He was angry; she was mortified, really. She could still feel the pink warmth in her cheeks. They walked in silence for awhile, Ginny’s eyes fixed on her feet as her high heels skated over the slippery ground. When she skidded and almost fell, Harry reached out and drew her arm into his, but without speaking or looking at her. Drawing close to him, she sighed. He felt thin and warm and familiar. Her fingers closed about his forearm, her nails lightly scraping the skin there. The restaurant was close to her flat and it was less than five minutes before they arrived back home, but Harry made no move to go inside. Releasing her, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his work trousers and, with a sigh, dropped to rest on the low brick wall that surrounded the miniscule front garden. Ginny tugged awkwardly at the end of her ponytail and kept standing for a few minutes longer, searching for something to say. Eventually she gave up and quietly took a seat beside him, bringing one leg up to tap her heel against the brickwork. She looked at Harry’s profile, outlined against the slowly darkening sky. His expression had changed. He looked thoughtful rather than cross. He also looked scruffy. Dark stubble was shadowing his jaw in a thick line, his tie was askew and she could see a fingerprint smeared on the right lens of his glasses. He must have come straight from work. She assumed Hermione must have told him that they were going to Delfino’s for dinner since… It suddenly occurred to Ginny to wonder what the hell he was doing there. “I thought you were away on an assignment,” she blurted out, confused. “Kingsley’s assistant told me that you could be away for weeks. Did something happen?” Harry didn’t reply for a moment. He reached out and lifted one of her hands onto his lap. The pads of his fingers were rough against her palm as he played with her fingers. When he finally spoke, it was to ask, in slightly amused tones, “’You’re not an elderly woman named Jane’? If you were trying to pull with that one, I reckon it needs a bit more work. Worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard.” Ginny rolled her eyes, but was secretly relieved that he seemed to have recovered his equilibrium. “It was Demelza’s fault and don’t even ask.” She groaned. “If it makes you feel any better about the whole bloody mess, I’ve just had to spend the past hour and a half listening to a rundown of the entire legislation regarding the insurance intricacies of the Quaffle.” Harry considered. “It does, actually.” He turned to give her a slight grin. “You never know, that information might come in handy if you keep practicing with Ron. He’s not exactly a light touch with the equipment, is he?” His eyes remained on her, searching her face. “That reminds me. I was having a look at your Firebolt last week and I think it needs a professional trimming before the county champs. I could take it to Sid in Diagon Alley before we leave for Montrose if you like.” Ginny was so surprised by the change in topic that she almost missed the point of it. “Before we leave?” she repeated slowly. Her fingers clenched down on his wrist, halting his movements. “Are you coming with me?” She had been dreading that aspect of the upcoming play-offs, leaving Harry behind. If the Harpies made it through the qualifying round, which they ought to do because the Magpies’ team was absolute shite that year, the championship tour would involve extensive travelling and exhausting training hours. The more wins they were able to rack up, the longer they would be away and there would be no time for home visits. She desperately wanted Harry to be there. Nobody understood or could offer the same level of support that he did. It wasn’t just that he was a born Quidditch player himself. He was her best mate and she needed him there. But she hadn’t dared to ask and had been merely hoping that his days off would coincide with the occasional match. But… He was nodding. “I’ve spent all afternoon with Kingsley, sorting out the most urgent assignments so that I can get stuck into them this week. Then I’m officially on leave and not on call for three weeks. King reckons I need a holiday anyway.” Harry rolled his eyes. “A holiday and a haircut, he said. So I’ll come with you to Montrose and when you’re not at training or in competition, we can… What do you do in Montrose?” Ginny was grinning. “The same thing we do everywhere, I reckon,” she said suggestively, leaning forward to kiss him. He playfully grabbed her ponytail and kept her where she was, turning the little peck into a full-blown and very public snog. Demelza might have been right about their reconciliations. Ginny, enthusiastically returning his embrace, would have been quite happy to stay as they were but Harry drew back after a few moments, dropping his hands to take a light hold of her elbows. His eyes were a little glazed, but he made a valiant effort to clear his throat and talk seriously. “I was with Kingsley when you came into the office today. Alisdair got the wrong end of the stick. I had been overseeing the dispatch of operatives this morning, but I have no intention of heading away on assignment myself in the next few months. My priorities are here right now, Ginny.” He gave her arms a gentle shake. “Hermione told me how upset you were. Gin, I would never leave under those circumstances, not without seeing you first. I would never do that.” Ginny bit her lip. “I know,” she said, and could say it sincerely. “I know you wouldn’t, Harry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for this week. I don’t know why I’ve thought or said half the things that I have. It’s like we haven’t been ourselves lately.” She sighed. “I’ve had more in common with the Ginny Weasley who acts like a complete cow and says total rubbish on the cover of the Prophet.” Harry shook his head, snorting in disgust. “Not unless you really have been carrying on a passionate love affair with Hermione and plotting to bring down the administration of the British Museum.” “Is that today’s story?” Ginny asked, momentarily diverted. “That’s actually a bit of a laugh. I’ll have to see if Demelza picked up a copy this morning.” “Well, it’s a bit more original than the usual engagement rubbish,” Harry conceded, and Ginny’s smile faded. “Harry, about that…” He quickly shook his head. “Not now, Ginny. I think that conversation is still coming.” “I love you, Harry,” Ginny said quietly. “So much. I’m just…not ready to marry you yet.” Harry touched the back of his knuckles to her cheek. “We’re not ready to be engaged yet,” he said frankly. “I realized that today, when Hermione told me that you just accepted without question that I would leave you like that. I’m not blaming you,” he went on quickly, when she started to apologise again. “But it hit me hard.” He paused, seemingly searching for the right words. “I think we just…hit the ground running after the battle at Hogwarts. There was so much to do and so many people to try and help… It seemed easier to get on with it than to really think about what happened.” “I know,” said Ginny. “If I sit still or the silence goes on for too long, I do start to think — and it hurts, Harry.” “Do you remember the day of Dumbledore’s funeral?” he asked, hands tightly wrapped about hers. “What I said to you that day?” She knew, instinctively, to what he was referring. Not the painful words, the ones she had half-feared for months before he finally uttered them and brought their small, selfish world crashing down, but the ones she had clung to in those darkest of days. “You said that it was like something out of someone else’s life.” She could feel tears prickling at the backs of her eyes. She smiled at him. “I made you happy.” “You still make me happy, Ginny.” Harry’s voice was rough. He pressed a kiss to her temple and remained close against her for a moment, breathing in the scent of her hair. “Nobody else gave me comfort the way that you did. I thought of you when things were going…well, badly was an understatement. And when things were over, everything else was so hard. Everyone was devastated. It was so hard to be happy, but I had to be, Ginny, I had to be happy. What else were we fighting for? Being with you was the only part of my life that seemed uncomplicated. Our relationship seemed completely separate, somehow, from the rest of it.” “I do know what you mean, Harry.” “But it isn’t separate,” Harry said emphatically. “I wasn’t the only one going through all of that. You were struggling as well and you’re my family, the most important person to me. You deserved better than to be used as some kind of…of pick-me-up.” At that unexpected statement, his entirely uncharacteristic openness seemed to falter. For the first time, he looked a bit embarrassed. Earnest, but embarrassed. “I sound like a right pillock, don’t I?” he muttered, flushing red along his cheekbones. “I doubt I’m even making sense.” “Go on, Harry,” Ginny said firmly. She had never, in her wildest imaginings, been able to have a conversation like this with him, and it suddenly seemed wholly necessary. “If everything was simple and easy between us, the rest of it seemed…manageable. But I never slowed down to ask if you were happy, did I? Really happy, I mean. After you came back from Romania, you seemed so much better and I wanted to believe that everything was fine. I never wanted to stop to acknowledge that there might be problems between the two of us on top of everything else.” “We just picked up where we left off without really talking about the time we were apart,” Ginny murmured. “You think I failed you when I left.” “And that I failed you when I left, I suppose. I do know you had to go, Harry. I understood. I just struggle sometimes with the idea that you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere.” She shrugged, a faint blush rising in her face. “That you’re mine, I suppose.” “I can’t sit here and say that I regret leaving you behind, Ginny, because what I said was true. If something had happened, if it had been my fault — well, that would have been it.” “I know.” Harry shook his head. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you don’t entirely trust me.” “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Ginny denied immediately. “I think the main problem is that we’ve had our relationship on the back bench for far too long. We’ve hardly seen each other and when we do, you’re right, it has to be fun and silly, and if it’s not, we end up at each other’s throats. But it can’t always be easy and happy, Harry. The cracks appeared pretty fast.” “We’ll work on it,” he told her, before breaking into a sudden grin. “By the time we get back from Scotland, we might have a complicated and unhappy relationship like everyone else.” He released one of her hands to fumble in his pocket. Ginny’s breath caught on a choke as he opened his fist to reveal something small, sparkly and suspiciously ring-like. “I’m not proposing,” he said hastily, correctly reading her expression. “I’d already bought this and I think you should hang onto it for now. According to Hermione, I’ve already made a complete balls-up of this, so I’m throwing in the towel when it comes to proposals. When it’s right, when we’re ready, give it back to me and I’ll start in on the rubbish speech I’d planned. When you’re ready,” he said emphatically. Ginny couldn’t hold back a tiny smile. “All right,” she said eventually, and he let out a visibly relieved breath. He wrapped one arm about her, pulling her closer to him, and they stared out at the empty street. The rain was falling more heavily now, running down their faces and dripping off Ginny’s chin, but she didn’t care. It was quiet and peaceful. “Smells like summer,” Harry said, his cheek resting against the top of her head. “You know, this kind of rain, it always reminds me of the Burrow. Mucking about on broomsticks in the garden.” “Does it?” said Ginny softly. “Remember the day Fred and George transfigured the garden gnomes into a Quidditch set?” His voice cracked just a little over Fred’s name and Ginny closed her eyes. “It was over an hour before anyone realized why the Bludgers were hollering every time they took a hit.” Harry tightened his grip on her. “It’s been awhile since we had a family match at the Burrow. I thought maybe this summer… Do you think it’s too soon?” Ginny opened her eyes and gazed down at the ring lying on the palm of her hand, sparkling weakly in what remained of the late spring light. “No,” she said finally, reaching up to press a kiss to his cheek. Her fingers closed securely about her ring. “I think this summer might just be the right time.” |
| Reviews 26 |
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