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Butter Dishes | ||||
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Category: Post-OotP Characters:Harry/Ginny Genres: Drama Warnings: None Story is Complete Rating: G Reviews: 17 Summary: I have stopped putting my elbows in butter dishes, knocking over bowls of porridge, and squealing nonsensically before blushing and running from the room. I gave up my crush on The Boy Who Lived. Hitcount: Story Total: 5082 |
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Butter Dishes I have stopped putting my elbows in butter dishes, knocking over bowls of porridge, and squealing nonsensically before blushing and running from the room. I gave up my crush on The Boy Who Lived. Why? I wanted to get to know Harry Potter. Aren’t they the same person? No. They are not and I have slowly over the past two years come to know that. Somewhere along the past two years, I realized that The Boy Who I Had a Crush On was not Harry Potter. He was a figment of my imagination, really. The Boy Who Lived was a persona I created in my mind, not a real person. Harry Potter is a real person. Harry Potter does not always know what to do. He is not always kind and generous. He is not always right. He does not always save the day. He cannot save everyone. He does not always think before he acts. He does not always have a plan. Harry Potter is not perfect. Maybe it was the way that his whole horrible life was splashed across the Daily Prophet during my third year that really helped me start to let go of the crush that I have had ever since I can remember. There may have been inklings before that, but I am sure that was one of the first lights of understanding that I saw. You see, since I have been conscious and aware I have known that there was a boy who was almost my age that saved our world. And I loved him for it. I was amazed when I saw him getting on the train with my brothers. I was ten. In my childish thoughts, Harry Potter was the most amazing being on the planet. The Boy Who Conquered the Dark Lord. He was the wizard that made the world safe and I was going to marry him. We were going to live happily ever after. There was probably even a castle built for us somewhere in my head. I also built a picture in my mind of The Boy Who Lived. He was a tragic hero and an orphan. He made the safe wizarding world that I grew up in. He was the best wizard in the world. He was perfect and noble. And, he became my brother’s best friend. But I know now that it was not The Boy Who Lived who got onto that train with my brothers, it was Harry Potter. When he came to my house I was in eleven year old raptures. The Boy Who Lived was eating sausages at my kitchen table. I thought that I had died and gone to heaven. I was rendered speechless in his presence. I know that Ron noticed, because nothing had ever rendered me speechless before. Of course I had heard that he was friends with my brother, my parents spoke of it often when they found out. They said things then that I could not understand about Harry being just another boy who deserved a normal life. The first thing I remember uttering in his presence was to defend him to Malfoy. I wonder now if that was the moment that sealed my fate in the mind of Lucius Malfoy, the protest of a girl defending her hero. And then I went to school, and poured out my heart to the memory of the most evil wizard who ever lived; all because I worshipped the idea of The Boy Who Lived. The diary. Tom Riddle. The Chamber of Secrets. I remember the cold hard stones of the floor and the feeling of the infinite cold of death creeping over my young mind and body. The Boy Who Lived saved my life. The Boy Who Lived knew what had happened to me; and he still did not tell anyone that it was me. He didn’t want to, I knew. He saved me and then he tried to protect me. Again there were raptures of a young girl, mixed with the deep pain of touching evil and living with fear. How could The Boy Who Lived love a girl who set loose the heir of Slytherin? Still though, I could not let go of my childish hopes of noble forgiveness and professions of love in the future. But I know now that the Boy Who Lived is not the one that saved me that day deep in the Chamber, as I lay in the grasp of Lord Voldemort. The Boy Who Lived did not beg me not to be dead. A terrified and insecure Harry Potter did. It was a difficult summer. I shied away from the deep pyramid chambers that Bill was so proud of opening. I avoided the stone ceilings held up with towering pillars. I did my best to be brave and not flinch at the snakes elaborately carved in temples. I thought of the first thing that I saw when I woke up. I thought of the desperate relief in Harry’s green eyes. I thought of how my secret was safe with my noble hero. I clung to that, and Bill’s hand which was so often offered. What I saw, when the Dementors came into our train compartment in the beginning of my second year, I am sure you can guess. They brought back the horrors of the Chamber, still so raw in my mind. The cold evil voice of Tom Riddle echoed in my mind as he ridiculed my childish crush while drawing the life out of me. When I saw what they did to The Boy That Lived, I was terrified. Maybe that planted a seed. I am not sure; it is hard to say when it really started forming. When the Dementor left, I saw The Boy Who Lived lying on the compartment floor and I was confused. Wasn’t I the one who was lying on the cold hard floor just a moment ago? No, I had to stop myself. The Boy Who Lived saved me from that and now here he was sweaty and shaking on the floor. But it wasn’t the Boy Who Lived who was lying there battling unknown horrors, no it was Harry Potter. I know that now. I watched him plummet from the sky as Cedric Diggory caught the snitch. I gasped in horror with the rest of the school. I was helpless, and so was The Boy Who Lived. It was not how I had let myself see him. I had a small window into his weakness that year. It was hard to accept his human frailty. It was hard to see that the Dementors could affect him that way. It was hard to think of what it was that he heard when they came near. I heard my own near death. Did he hear that same high and cold laugh? When I thought that Sirius Black had attacked my brother instead of Harry, I realized something else. It takes courage to be the friend of the Boy Who Lived. Of course I know now that Sirius would never have hurt Ron, but at the time it was frightening. Then there was a slow realization that The Boy Who Lived would always be in danger. And those who stood beside him would most likely partake in that. I worried for Ron. I worried for The Boy Who Lived. And while my motives might not have been spot on, I swore that I would learn all I could from Professor Lupin. I stayed quietly away from the three who knew my secret; those who were my brother’s friends. Ron had made it clear from the beginning that I was not part of their group. And I was not quite ready to face The Boy Who Saved Me. He was after all, not just my hero, but a reminder of how foolish I had been. So I sat back and watched, occasionally catching his eye and wondering how I had been sorted into Gryffindor. I was thrilled when Dad got tickets to the World Cup. I was thrilled that Harry was coming, too. I remember wondering as I watched the game, if I would ever be able to make it on the Gryffindor team. I wondered if all those years of picking the lock on the broom shed would ever come to fruition. And then the Mark flew up into the air. At the campsite I wondered, was that hanging in the air over the bodies of my uncles? They were twins; I never knew them, killed by Death Eaters before I was even born. Was that Mark hung over the bodies of Harry’s parents? Were they finally here for him, like we had thought Sirius Black was last year? But we were all safe, for the time. When His name came out of the Goblet of Fire, I thought that it was another amazing feat of the Boy Who Lived. If there was something as monumental as the TriWizard tournament happening, The Boy Who Lived was sure to win. The Boy Who Lived had defeated Voldemort, he could do anything. Who else should have been the school champion? The Boy Who Lived was already a champion in my mind. But it wasn’t The Boy Who Lived that walked down the silence between the house tables. It was Harry Potter. I know that now. Rita Skeeter in her hungry ambition to sell papers helped show me that. You see when I read that article about Harry crying over his mum and dad, I wept too. I hated that my hero had to be so brave. But then Hermione told me that it was all rubbish. I began to realize something that would change my life. I was in love with The Boy Who Lived, but I didn’t even know Harry Potter. I didn’t know what was real and what was fabricated by that bug of a woman. I knew nothing of Harry and the way he felt about losing his parents, I knew only that his Muggle relatives were awful and that I had learned from my brothers. Everything I knew of The Boy Who Lived had been second hand. The only exception was that I knew that I owed him my life. But I really did not even know to whom I was indebted. I knew only an idea, a legend that was told to children. I only knew of The Boy Who Lived. I did not know Harry Potter. It took a while for it to really sink in. It took awhile to mourn my crush. It took awhile to realize that I was mourning a picture in my head. I was mourning all the things that I thought The Boy Who Lived was. I needed to let go of all of those things if I was ever going to know who Harry Potter really is. It was hard to admit, even to myself, that I really didn’t know the boy I had fantasized about for so long. I was a little afraid to find out who he was to be honest. What if he was nothing like I thought he was? But I was at the age where I started to understand what it meant to really care about someone. You can’t care for some one that you don’t even know. It was not easy to forge on and let go of The Boy Who Lived, because all year he seemed to be the hero that I had always thought that he would be. But I realized slowly how small and unsure he seemed of himself when he faced those tasks. I knew that even though I was around him quite a bit, still silenced by his presence, I didn’t really know him. I am not saying that I did not curse in my dorm room after Ron suggested that I go to the ball with Harry. Of course, after I had already agreed to go with Neville. The crush on The Boy Who Lived reared its head again that night with a vengeance. But I see now that it was probably for the best. Harry would have had a silent partner if I would have been his date that night. And what good would that have done either one of us? And after hearing Hermione and Ron arguing later, and who couldn’t hear that one, I finally realized something else. The Boy Who Lived didn’t know me either. How could I expect him to like me when he had never even seen me? I know he had seen me over and over again, at my house, in the common room, in the Great Hall; but he had never seen me. He wasn’t as bad as Ron, of course, as it was really my fault. I had never been able to be myself in front of The Boy Who Lived. And I missed being me! Here I was at school where I could hex my brothers into oblivion for every snide comment and I didn’t because I was afraid of what The Boy Who Lived might think. And so when Michael Corner asked me out, I said yes. I wanted to be myself again and not worry about what anyone thought about it. And Michael had seen me being myself when Harry wasn’t around and he liked what he saw. It was a relief really. Even if I didn’t like Michael as much as he liked me, the attention was nice. And I needed it a little bit then as well. And then the Tournament was over, and in the pull of a Portkey the world was forever changed. Cedric was dead; a life full of promise was gone. And Voldemort was back, in the flesh, no longer a disembodied spirit or a ghost of a memory. Harry, bloodied and broken, sprawled on the ground clutching a corpse. That is what I remember of that day. We had to go to London for our safety. Percy had broken his family ties. My mother was prone to tears in those days and my father fits of silence. There were meetings in the dead of night and dust and doxies during the day. Sirius was once again a prisoner, this time in his childhood home. And so was Harry, because “Dumbledore has his reasons.” Hermione, my brothers and I were bound together because we were shut out of everything. It was a time for me to shine really, to show Fred and George that I had been paying attention and that I could sneak and eavesdrop with the best of them. And I became even closer with Hermione with all those boys around. I told her that I was seeing Michael and that I had “given up” on my crush on Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. But we had more important things to worry about then. Voldemort was back, and the ministry was in serious denial. My father was in danger of loosing his job if anyone found out that he was friends with Dumbledore. Every time Tonks knocked something over we were assaulted with insults of being “blood traitor brats.” Sirius was still wanted for murder he didn’t commit. Aurors were coming and going their voices hushed and worried. And mum was making us hunt up doxies and puffskeins! All the while telling us nothing. Knowing that the whole wizarding world is on the verge of destruction has a way of making a person, even a fourteen year old girl, look at things differently. It made me look at Harry Potter differently too. I listened in as much as I could. I sat beside Ron and Hermione as they agonized over not being able to tell Harry what was going on. I heard them talk about how angry he would be; not knowing what was happening. But Dumbledore made us promise, all of us. Not that I had any right to write a letter to Harry Potter. And then we heard that Harry was attacked and that the Ministry had tried to have him expelled from school. Of course, Dumbledore wouldn’t let them get away with that, but we all knew that Dumbledore’s reputation was being trounced just as bad as Harry’s was. It was like walking over a frozen lake and never knowing when the ice was going to crack. We did our best to take our minds off of it, the twins working harder than ever on their new “products” as if they had been sent on a mission. I know now that they had. They had gotten their inventing orders directly from Harry. I was still seeing Michael and that made it easier to make the decision that I made before Harry arrived. The crush on the Boy Who Lived had been laid to rest. I had let it go completely. I enjoyed being Michael’s girlfriend and I made up my mind that as soon as he arrived I was going to let myself enjoy becoming Harry Potter’s friend. And then Harry arrived and things were different. For one thing, I spoke to him as soon as I saw him, and for another Harry was over flowing with anger and snapping at his best friends. And I realized something very profound that first night he was there. He wasn’t perfect and I liked him better that way. It made it easier some how to just be his friend. We were in this together and after all the rumors and slander in the Daily Prophet over the summer, Harry needed his friends around him. There were more important things going on in the world than stupid school girl crushes, and Harry needed help. So I helped. I celebrated when he won his hearing. I kept him company on the train when Hermione and Ron had to go to the prefects’ compartment. I brought students to the D.A. meeting. I gladly passed information under that Umbridge troll’s nose, because this was important. It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t like plotting and planning a practical joke. We needed to learn how to survive. Harry was the best one to teach us, so I helped Harry Potter start his army. I cheered when Harry caught the Snitch and put my youngest brother out of his misery. And yes, I kept cheering as I watched Harry and George beat Malfoy to a bloody pulp. No, Harry, again wasn’t perfect that day, but I approved of his anger. I relished the blows, after hearing that song and watching Ron falter as he heard it as well. I tried to wait up for Ron that night, with Harry and Hermione. In the end I went to bed before he showed up. I knew that Harry and Hermione would handle him, better now than I can. I vowed to throw everything that I had into DA, just to get back at that toad and her moronic Quidditch ban. I showed her that the Gryffindor Quidditch team wouldn’t be disbanded. I tried out and took Harry’s place. I wasn’t sure how he would feel about me being Seeker. But I also wasn’t going to hide behind what Harry might think anymore. I knew that I could do it. And then, suddenly, McGonagall was shaking my shoulder, leading myself and the twins sleepily to Dumbledore’s office. She said Harry had seen our father hurt. Then Sirius was helping me to stand. We had to stay. It was the longest night I have ever known. I sat and stared into the fire, not giving a second thought that Harry had seen me in my pajamas. I could only think of my father, wondering if I would hear his laugh again, or feel his arms around me, or see the bashful way that he would agree with my mother when she scolded him. Harry was there and silent. Was I glad that Harry had seen the attack? Was I wishing that he could have stopped it? I don’t know. All I knew was that I was willing my father to be alive; and aching for the comfort of my mum. And Harry being there couldn’t make it better. But Dad was going to be alright, and Harry set to brooding. I knew what was going on, I listened; I eavesdropped with the rest of them. He thought he was the snake. He thought that he had done this to my father. And I was thrown back to my first year, hearing my mother and father reassure me. “It wasn’t your fault Ginny. You didn’t know what he was using you for. There is no way you could have known.” I felt an angry surge that day. Looking back it was a triumphant moment. I was angry with Harry Potter! How dare he forget what I had gone through, what he had done for me. How dare he hide himself away from the only person who might be able to answer his questions! I realized that Harry Potter can be terribly dimwitted sometimes, and I told him so. And Christmas was rather enjoyable after that. The second half of my fourth year went by in a blaze of sneaks, pranks, Quidditch and fear. The Death Eaters escape was a sign, we knew. Then Dumbledore was gone and the DA was put on hold. Easter eggs and the Diversion. When Harry needed help, I knew just who to ask, and I waved, sad and triumphant, as my brothers flew to freedom. Then I cheered and sang as my last brother at Hogwarts flew to victory. Of course I helped; it was my hand that closed over that snitch that sealed the cup. Then Harry needed me, Sirius needed me, and I helped. I stood look out with Luna, I cursed Malfoy with a face full of bats, and I tore off down to the Forbidden Forest with the others. I climbed on the back of a Magical Beast I could not see and flew to London. And yes my heart was pounding as we ran through the Ministry and into the Department of Mysteries. But it was no longer pounding because of the presence of the Boy Who Lived; it was pounding with the fear and terror of impending battle. I heard the voices beyond the veil. I was mesmerized by the passage of time: a tiny bird forever being reborn. And then we were in the Hall of Prophecy. And then Death Eaters were surrounding us, threatening me. Again would the Dark Lord use me to get to Harry? But he would not let it be. I remember the closing of ranks, feeling a human shield form around me. I watched, breathless, as Harry Potter stepped between me and Bellatrix LeStrange. I smashed shelves and I ran. I ran for my life. Into a dark room filled with planets. I fought and felt the Death Eater’s hand close around my ankle. I heard Luna’s spell and then the sickening crunch of breaking bone followed by searing pain. I tried to go on, I tried to fight. The last thing I saw was my brother being wrapped in the tentacles of a brain, leaving Harry and Neville alone in a room of Death Eaters. It was not the Boy Who Lived who watched his godfather die, who feared for the lives of his friends. It was Harry Potter, my friend Harry Potter. My middle name is not Molly for nothing. I am my mother’s daughter as much as that idea scares me from time to time. But my mother taught me how to care for people. She taught me a lot more than how to knit jumpers and make treacle fudge. She taught me everyday through the way she loved her children and her husband and then later how she wanted so much to love Harry. She taught me that you never give up on those you love. She has not given up on Percy, she still loves him. The way that she spoke of Harry, the hushed and whispered tones of fear for him, made me realize something else. I realized that summer that I am part of Harry’s family, at least the only thing he has ever know that comes close to it. I realized that now there was a different kind of love that I could give Harry: one with no strings attached. I realized that it was my duty to stand beside him and even check him when he needed it, because that is what I would have done if he were my brother. I wasn’t going to let him sulk and wallow in self pity because that was not helping anything. I am a strong girl and a very competent witch, and there was a war coming: we all knew it. Even if I couldn’t join the Order, I could join Harry. And it was about time that Harry Potter got to know Ginevra Molly Weasley as an ally, a friend, and a person. And if for some reason he ended up being on the receiving end of one of my patented bat-bogey hexes, well so be it. We have chosen fear. We have chosen danger. We have chosen to live not knowing what might happen next month, next week, tomorrow, in five minutes from now. We have chosen this life because we have chosen love. We, my family and I, have chosen to love him. Each in our own way as a friend, a brother, another son; we have chosen to love Harry. Yes we side with the Order because it is right. We do it because it is just. We do it because the alternative is unspeakable and evil. But that is not the reason we love Harry. We do not love him for the scar he tried so often to hide, we do not love him because he was Voldemort’s downfall. We love Harry because he deserves to be loved. We love Harry because the need for it has been in his eyes since the first time he saw our home and our family. When he declared our home brilliant, despite its dilapidated appearance, we knew. He saw the wealth that we did have, and we could not help but share it. We love him because he is a best friend who bought us chocolate frogs. We love him because he saved our lives. We love him because we are all too often reminded of the love we gave our own children that was denied him. We love him because he chose us and we are his family. I wondered myself, why it was that he could love. He had never seen love, friendship or even kindness for the first eleven years of his life. I know, now, of his mother’s sacrifice: the blood protection of love that saved him. And now I know why it is that he can love his friends, his family. It courses through his veins. It has protected his child’s heart in a dark and lonely place that few if any could have survived. He knows how to love, because he once knew love. For a too short season he was surrounded by it. It was that forgotten memory of love that his blood kept alive. It has allowed him to fight and make up with my youngest brother. It has allowed him to give to the twins. It has allowed him to let my mother hug him to her as her own. It will allow him much more. I know it will. Harry Potter is not perfect. Harry Potter does not always know what to do, but he tries to do the best he can when he knows his friends are in danger. He is not always kind and generous, but he has been known to give without a thought to himself when his friends are in need. He is not always right, but he most often tries to do what he thinks is right. He does not always save the day, but he will win the war. He cannot save everyone; he could not save Sirius and he will have to live with that forever. He does not always think before he acts, but he always acts. He does not always have a plan, but that is why he has us: the Order of the Phoenix, the Weasley family, Dumbledore, Hermione, Ron, and me. I have stopped putting my elbows in butter dishes. It is very difficult to hold a wand that way. A war cannot be fought with childish distractions. I will not fight beside an illusion, but I will stand and fight beside my friend. I will stand and fight for everything that I know and love about my world. I will stand and fight beside Harry Potter, not because he is the Boy Who Lived; but because he is a boy who deserves to really live. The End |
| Reviews 17 |
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