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Author: Aibhinn Story: We All Need Some Light Rating: Teens Setting: AU Status: WIP Reviews: 32 Words: 12,876
Sept. 16, 2000 "And it's Owens, Owens of the Tornadoes with the Quaffle, passes to Jamison, who passes back to Owens—OH! nice Bludger work there by Portree's Thompson! Owens misses the Quaffle and it's recovered by O'Riley. Portree now in possession." Harry Potter, Seeker for the Tutshill Tornadoes, ignored the commentary and the melee beneath him, instead keeping one eye on Roger Davies (who had made the change from Chaser to Seeker shortly after being drafted by Pride of Portree) and one eye out for the Snitch. The match had already been going for nearly three and a half hours, and his team were getting tired; two of their Chasers had been injured last week in practise, and consequently their reserve players were on the field. It was time to end it before Portree got more than a hundred and fifty points ahead of Tutshill—and they were well on their way; the current score was 80-200. "O'Riley shoots—and Jackson misses! Portree score! I don't know what's wrong with Tutshill today; their players seem to be suffering from a Butterfingers Hex. Llewellyn of Portree has possession of the Quaffle, throwing to Jones—oh! MacKenzie's got wicked aim with that Beater's bat! Jones drops the Quaffle and Owens catches it, and it's back up the pitch—" Make that 80-210. Harry gritted his teeth in frustration. Something had to be done now. Making up his mind, he set his face in an expression of concentration and dived. As he'd hoped, Davies fell for it, zooming after him. "And—what's this? Potter's diving—he's seen the Snitch!" The cheers from the Tutshill side of the stands nearly tripled in volume as Harry angled for the field near the bottom of the Portree goals, Davies only a yard or two behind him. Harry didn't often try to pull off a Wronski Feint—had only done it three times in the two years he'd been playing professional Quidditch, in fact—which meant that, when he needed it, it worked. Praying that his Firebolt III would take the stress, he leaned farther forward, picking up speed. Got to time this just right... almost there... almost.... He swerved right and up only a few feet from the ground, fighting not to be pulled off his broom. Davies swore and tried to correct, but at the last moment, Harry saw him dive off his Nimbus Millennium. The broom hit the stands with a loud crack, and Davies came up from his roll (which had probably kept him from breaking bones), swearing vociferously. "Oh!" the announcer said, as the fans gasped. "It was a Wronski Feint—beautifully executed, I might add. That's only Potter's fourth in his career, and quite effective, I must say. It looks like Davies is going to the bench for another broom, as losing one's broom isn't a legal reason to stop play. He seems to be all right—good on him. That was a magnificent dive off his broom, and likely the only thing that saved him from a nasty injury." Harry let out a breath in relief. It had worked, and nobody had got hurt. He rather liked Roger Davies—they'd both been picked for England's national team earlier that year, Harry in the starting line-up and Davies as a reserve. During that time, they had become friendly, if not precisely friends. It had been a disappointment when England had gone down to Brazil in the quarter-finals. The match had been held in Rio de Janeiro, and the strong sunlight had blinded Harry just at the wrong time; the Brazilian Seeker had got to the Snitch a hair's-breadth before him. Harry snapped out of his reverie and back to the present: he'd seen a small, sparkling, golden glint just a few yards up the pitch. Forgetting everything else, he put on another burst of speed. "And there he goes! It looks like Potter's seen the Snitch for real this time! Portree's Beaters are converging—but Tutshill's are pacing him, protecting their Seeker; nice work, that." Harry barely heard him. His vision had narrowed, his focus solely on the small, glittering Snitch that fluttered ahead of him. He leant forward even farther, reducing drag and speeding himself up—he was so close—he started to reach— "Up on your right, Potter!" shouted Jane Donovan, one of Tutshill's Chasers. He reacted without thinking, throwing himself to the left into a Sloth Grip Roll as the Bludger came whistling by, right where he'd been. His heart was pounding; he'd have broken an arm and probably several ribs if that had hit him. Forcing himself to focus again, he shot forward and closed his hand round the fluttering ball. The referee whistled and the Tutshill fans roared their approval. "POTTER'S GOT THE SNITCH!" the announcer bellowed over the crowd. "POTTER'S GOT THE SNITCH! TUTSHILL WIN, 230-210!" Harry stabbed his fist into the air as his teammates circled round him, cheering. All seven of them flew a victory lap, waving at their celebrating fans, before descending toward their changing rooms with the chant of "POT-TER! POT-TER! POT-TER! POT-TER!" in their ears. Harry paused, hovering on his broom, and gave a grin and a last wave to the whole stadium. The roar increased. And that's today's nod toward the sports pages of the Prophet, Harry thought, grimacing internally. He'd decided long ago that the best way to throw off those who might wonder about his occasional meetings with strangers was to pretend to be the ultimate Quidditch star—a slightly swelled head, a love of the fans (and, not so incidentally, the cameras), and a cocky grin. The Boy Who Lived becomes the Man Who Would Be A Star. Harry dived toward the tunnel to the changing rooms, snorting to himself. Well, it does provide something for the Prophet to focus on—and manages to hide my meetings with Order members quite nicely. I suppose I shouldn't quibble. Harry landed just inside the tunnel and handed off his Firebolt III to Thomas, the broom-keeper. "Check the Braking charm, will you?" he said. "It felt a little weak there at the last. For a moment, I wasn't certain I'd be able to pull out of that feint." "Yessir, Mr Potter," Thomas said amiably. He was about sixty and had been with the Tornadoes for most of his adult life. What he didn't know about brooms had yet to be discovered. Several of the broom-making companies had even approached him to work for them, or so rumour had it, but he'd refused every time. Colum MacKenzie, one of the Beaters, had told Harry that Thomas had wanted to play Quidditch his whole life but had never quite made it, so he'd found a way to be as close to his beloved game as possible. Harry wasn't sure whether to believe it, but as Thomas seemed utterly content with his lot, there didn't really seem any point to wondering. Stripping off his leather guards, Harry turned left into the men's changing rooms. Laughter and running water already echoed inside. "Hey, Potter," yelled David Owens, one of the Chasers, "did you pose for your fan club?" "How many birds fainted this time?" Keeper Connor Jackson taunted. "More than ever did for your ugly gob," Harry replied, grinning. The others laughed as he reached his locker and pulled it open. His robes got tossed into the laundry bin at the end of the row of lockers for the Tutshill house-elves to take back to the clubrooms, and his trousers, boxers, shirt, socks, and Quidditch guards stuffed into his gym bag, after he'd pulled his clean clothes out. His boots he left on the floor in front of his locker. Pulling the elastic from his slightly-longer-than-shoulder-length hair, he took his shampoo and soap and joined the others in the showers. "So what's all this I hear about a little blonde in Wimbourne last week?" Chris Mishra, the other Beater, was something of a ladies' man and professed himself jealous of the way Harry could draw women in without trying. Literally without trying, though Mishra would never believe it; he couldn't conceive of any man with Harry's fame being content in a marriage of two years' duration. "What about her?" Harry ducked under the shower spray, wetting his hair down. "What did she want?" Mishra asked, fascinated. "She was something else, mate. Curvy enough, but not fat. A warmful armful, that one. Merlin, what I wouldn't give to have a bird with tits like those." Harry smirked, lathering shampoo into his hair. "What makes you think she wanted anything?" She had—specifically, to give him a report for the Order—but of course he couldn't say that. There were snorts of amusement from everyone. "Right, all she wanted was a chance to bask in your divine light, is that it?" Owens said. "Don't bother trying to get any more out of him, Chris," Jackson said as Mishra opened his mouth. "You know Potter's wife—she's got him so far under her thumb, it's amazing that he can even come to practice." He gave Harry a sidelong smirk. "You can certainly tell who wields the wand in their house!" Harry had to stifle a laugh. Ginny, possessive? Well, she might be if she were ever all that concerned, he admitted to himself, leaning back to rinse his hair, but with all the protectiveness she put up with as a child, I can't imagine her trying to tie me to her apron strings. "So I suppose it's hardly worth it to invite you along tonight, is it?" MacKenzie asked, turning off the water and reaching for the towel to dry off. His hair was almost as red as a Weasley's. "We're going down to the Cat and Kettle for a pint or two, along with a few of the blokes from Portree." Harry shook his head, pushing wet locks out of his eyes as he reached for the soap. "Can't, I'm afraid. There's a big get-together at my in-laws' house, and I have to be there." The other players exchanged significant glances. "Definitely under her thumb," Mishra agreed, turning off his own shower and towelling off. "It's a sad thing," Jackson sighed. "Especially at his age." MacKenzie shook his head. "Harry, m'lad, you ought to learn to live a little! You're what, twenty? You've got a life ahead of you, mate, and you've already tied yourself down! What are you going to be doing in forty years?" "Coaching a Quidditch side and teaching my grandchildren to play on weekends," Harry said, grinning as he soaped his legs. "Right. So why not have some fun now, while you're still young enough to enjoy it?" Harry put the soap back and began rinsing himself off. "Because if I 'had some fun', as you put it, I wouldn't live to coach and teach my grandchildren," he said dryly. "In fact, I wouldn't live to have grandchildren. Ginny would kill me, painfully and messily, and then bring me back to life just so she'd have the chance to kill me again." He, too, turned off the shower—he was the last of them to finish—and dried himself as quickly as possible. The clock on the wall said half-past four, and dinner was to be at six; if he wanted to spend any time alone with Ginny at all today, he'd better get home soon. Tossing the towel into the second laundry bin, he walked back to his locker and started pulling on his clothes. "Give it up, Mishra," Owens said. "He puts on a good show, but you'll never catch him chasing totty." He looked at Harry out of the corner of his eye. "Frankly, mate, having met your wife, I can't say I blame you." "Cheers, David," Harry said, grinning. Slipping on his favourite pair of black jeans, he fastened them, then put his dragonhide vest on, with no shirt beneath it. It was something of a trademark, Harry Potter leaving after a match in his black jeans and black dragonhide; Harry didn't particularly like it, any more than he usually liked being 'famous Harry Potter,' but the benefits far outweighed the discomfort. He performed a Drying Charm on his hair, then ran a comb through it; long and heavy as it was, it stayed put far better than it had when it had been shorter. It had developed a pleasing sort of wave, which girls (and women) apparently found irresistible. He knew Ginny did, at least, and when he'd had it trimmed just before the start of the season, Witch Weekly had actually published an article about his change in hairstyle. Well, he thought, putting the comb away, at least nobody takes me very seriously anymore. Nobody who doesn't know better, at any rate; and that's sort of the point. He pulled on his boots, picked up his gym bag, and shut his locker. "Out to face the screaming masses?" MacKenzie teased. "Of course." Harry saluted jauntily. "See you Tuesday." If I'm really, really lucky, he thought, perhaps they'll be focused on Pride of Portree. After all, this is their pitch. But he didn't hold out much hope. Squaring his shoulders as he left the changing room, he forced a smile onto his face and headed out to fool the media one more time. *** It was nearly half-past five by the time he made it home, exhausted from having talked to fans and press for what seemed like hours. His face hurt from smiling; his brain hurt from trying to make sure nothing he said could be taken too far out of context. Though nothing can guarantee that, he thought, sighing. He was a little irritated by the time it had taken; he'd hoped for at least an hour alone with Ginny before they had to leave. A year or so before, he and Ginny had bought a Muggle house in a small community a bit north-west of London, and they'd created their Apparition point in the garage, where nobody was likely to see them popping in and out. The garage opened into a mud room / laundry area off the kitchen. Harry left his gym bag on top of the Muggle washing machine and walked through the kitchen toward the lounge. "Ginny?" he called. "Are you here?" There was no answer, but he saw a piece of parchment on the dining table, held down by the pepper mill. He picked it up and read: Harry, Gilbert's asked me to come in for an hour or so this afternoon; apparently there's a problem that needs sorting, and he thinks my particular talents will be of use. Tell Mum I'll be a bit late, but I should be in time for dinner. Love, Ginny Harry sighed and set the note down. "Bloody perfect," he grumbled. He'd been looking forward to spending some quality time with his wife, even if it was only a few minutes. Now they'd both be distracted by family all evening, and probably too tired by the time they got home to do more than kiss and fall asleep. Not that he minded going to Weasley family events, of course, but he'd had matches every weekend for the past three weeks, and practices all week, and he missed having Ginny all to himself. No practice or match tomorrow, at least, he told himself, heading down the hall toward their bedroom. We'll be able to spend some time together then. Their bedroom was decorated in restful shades of cream and sage green. It was almost like being in a wood or a park. He unbuttoned the dragonhide and hung it up with a sigh of relief, then pulled off his boots as well. His mother-in-law would have a fit if he showed up at her house dressed the way he did for photo shoots; she wasn't entirely pleased with the persona he'd taken on, though she did recognise the need for it. If there was a word in Molly Weasley's vocabulary for a male 'scarlet woman,' I think she'd say the way I dress is the next thing to it. He chuckled at the thought. The lads on the team were more accurate than they realised about his attitude toward women who threw themselves at him. Not that Ginny controlled him, but that he simply had no interest in anyone but her. Next to Ginny, most women paled into near-invisibility, especially the type who chased after Quidditch stars. Where they were scheming, she was straightforward. Where they'd say what they thought you wanted to hear, she said precisely what she meant, no more and no less. Where they were willing to compromise nearly anything to get the Quidditch star they wanted, if only for a night, Ginny had clear definitions of what she was willing to compromise on and what she wasn't, and stuck to those definitions with all her formidable will. And besides, she's just plain sexier than all those other women combined. He put on a light-green Oxford shirt, and pulled over it a dark-green jumper (not one that Molly had knitted, but one he thought she'd like). He untucked the collar, so it showed over the neck of the jumper, and pulled the cuffs of his shirt free, too. Padding in his sock feet across the hall to the loo, he ran the brush through his long hair and pulled it into a tail at the nape of his neck. If he left it free, he knew Molly wouldn't be able to resist asking if she could just give him a bit of a trim; he and Bill had exchanged rueful glances at the last get-together, when she'd done exactly that. But Ginny rather liked his long hair, and truth be told, so did he. Sometimes he got a chuckle out of thinking what his uncle and aunt would say if they saw him now: twenty years old, two years married, richer than they could imagine he'd ever be, the hero of the wizarding world, and a famous sports star. He didn't think they'd even recognise him, unless he walked up to them and identified himself. Nearly the only thing that hadn't changed since he lived with them was the glasses; he was still blind as a bat without them. And the scar, of course. The scar would never leave him. Glancing at the clock, he cleaned his teeth quickly, then went back to their room to put on his black trainers. Time to leave. With a last sigh for missing Ginny, he Disapparated. *** The Weasleys' back garden was just as he'd always known it: gnome-infested, overgrown, and filled with redheads. He opened the gate and sauntered in, grinning as heads turned and voices greeted him. One voice, however, pierced through the noise easily: "Unca Hawwee Unca Hawwee Unca Hawwee!" Harry laughed as he knelt and held out his arms to the toddler who was making his unsteady way toward him, holding tightly onto his parents' hands. Samuel Ronald Weasley let go the hands and threw his full weight forward into his youngest uncle's embrace. Harry grunted with the impact and stood, swinging the boy up into his arms and grinning a hello at Ron and Hermione. "Hi, Sam!" he said, accepting a hug and a kiss. "Merlin, you're getting big! What're they feeding you at home?" "Gween beans," Sam told him with all the solemnity of a 13-month-old. He craned his neck to look over Harry's shoulder. "Auntie?" "Auntie Ginny will be here shortly. She had a few things to finish first." Harry gave his two best friends a one-armed hug, Sam held securely by the other. "Good to see you." "And you," Ron said, releasing Harry and tousling his son's red hair affectionately. "The twins think we should train him up as a Beater, since he's got experience already at being a Bludger." "I should say he had!" Hermione laughed. "I was black and blue inside for the last nine weeks before he was born." "Beatuh!" Sam crowed. Harry winced at the volume. "Beatuh beatuh!" "Not so loud, please, darling," Hermione said. "Where is Ginny, Harry?" "Sorting a few things at work before she comes," Harry said, grimacing. "She said Gilbert had a few things he needed her to do." "On a Saturday?" Ron said, surprised. "What do they have her doing there on a weekend?" "I gather she's been working with the Prophecies, but she can't tell me much more than that. I think they're trying to push the limits of her Gift." "Gif'?" Sam perked up. "No, not that sort of gift," Ron said, grinning. "Sorry, son." "I think Nana has something for you, Sam," Hermione said, catching her son's immediate attention. She held out her arms and he leant forward eagerly, letting her take him from Harry. "Come along, let's go see, shall we?" She settled him comfortably on her hip, and the two of them went back inside. "He's been all excited about coming to visit 'Nana and Papa' since Mum Flooed on Wednesday," Ron said, grinning after them. "He's got quite the vocabulary, hasn't he? Hermione's been reading to him ever since she found out she was pregnant. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he inherited every ounce of her cleverness." "He's a gem," Harry said. There was always a small twinge of—something—every time he saw his best friends with their son. Not quite pain, but—longing? Regret? He wasn't sure. "Hey," Ron said, and Harry turned to see a concerned expression on his best mate's face. "You and Ginny will have one of your own soon. No worries." "Right." Harry forced a smile. "After all, she's a Weasley, right? If I weren't travelling with the team all the time, no doubt we'd already have two and a third on the way." Neither he nor Ginny had shared with the rest of the family their attempts to have a child, nor their dismay at repeated disappointments. They had even gone to St Mungo's and subjected themselves to a barrage of tests, only to be told that there was nothing physically wrong with them. "Maybe it's just not time yet," the Healer had said sympathetically. The fact that Hermione had given birth to Sam eleven months to the day after she and Ron had married had only increased Harry and Ginny's desire for a child of their own. Both of them adored their nephew, but that didn't make the longing any less. However, despite the fact that they'd never said anything, Harry had the distinct feeling that Ron had more than a faint idea of how they felt. He gave Harry a sharp look, then smiled and clapped him on the back. "Come on," he said. "Mum's wanting a hand." "All right," Harry said, gratefully taking the change of subject. "Anything to stay on my mother-in-law's good side." The two of them went inside. A chorus of greetings sounded from all round the room, and Harry had to smile. It was too rare that the whole family got together, and he couldn't help feel his heart lift at the sight. Bill's wife, Fleur, sat in a corner with their daughter, Marjorie, and Sam, reading a storybook; Katie Bell, George's fiancé, and Angelina, Fred's wife, sat on the sofa talking animatedly with Hermione and Tonks, who was currently dating Charlie. The men of the family—except Arthur, who wasn't home yet—were engaged in various lifting-and-carrying activities for Molly, who stood in the kitchen, directing all of them in her usual no-nonsense voice. "Fred and George, you carry the tables out to the garden, and for heaven's sake, use your muscles, not your wands—I'm never certain whether you've picked up your own wands or one of those silly things you two sell. This is likely to be one of the last nice weekends of the year, and I want to make the most of it. Charlie, you shoo the chickens back into their coop. We don't want them underfoot while we're trying to eat. And watch for eggs; I've a couple of hens that like to hide their nests. Bill, pull down the big serving bowls from the top of the cupboard, will you, dear? I can't reach them, and I just don't like to use magic with them, because they belonged to your grandmother. Hurry, we haven't much time; the food will be ready shortly." Her gaze fell upon Ron and Harry, and her face lit up. "Harry! Ron! Oh, I'm so glad to see you!" She bestowed a hug and a kiss on both of them. "I've seen Hermione and Sam, of course, but where's Ginny?" "Still at work," Harry said, giving his mother-in-law a kiss on the cheek. "She got called in unexpectedly, but her note said she'd be here for dinner." Molly's face fell. "Oh, I do hope so. They work her at all hours, with that Gift of hers. If Gift it is; I'm not entirely certain of that, either—it sounds more a curse to me. The poor dear. I do hope she didn't get it from my side of the family; I'd hate to be responsible for that sort of thing." She cocked her head and looked up at him. "Didn't you have a match today, Harry?" "Yes, earlier. We won by twenty points." "Excellent," she said with satisfaction. "With your Chasers on the injured list, I was afraid it would cause problems for you, but you seem to be doing well even though you're having to use your reserves." Harry blinked, startled by this observation from a woman who, to the best of his knowledge, had never been interested in Quidditch and never followed it. By the expression on his face, Ron, too, was surprised. "I didn't know you followed the Tornadoes so closely, Mum," Ron said. To their even greater surprise, she flushed slightly. "Well, I never did, but as Harry's playing with them—" She was saved from having to say more by a chorus of "Ginny!" from the front room. Harry turned round and smiled at the sight of his wife, despite the fact that she looked tired and frustrated. Things must not have gone as well as she'd hoped, he thought, moving toward her. Ginny greeted the other members of the family affectionately but distantly as she headed straight for Harry and wrapped her arms round him, burying her face against his chest. He hugged her close, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. "Rough day, love?" he asked quietly. "Merlin, yes," she sighed, "but I can't tell you about it here. Wait until we get home." She squeezed him briefly but tightly, then pulled away and turned to the other figure who had come in the doorway—a figure in Auror's robes. "Thank you, Harrison," she said. "You can go on back to the house. The wards will protect me here, and we'll be Apparating through them straight back to the garage." "Yes, ma'am," Harrison said, and saluted Harry. Harry grinned and raised a hand in greeting. "Nice match today, sir. I was able to catch most of it on the WWN, while Mrs Potter was working." "Thanks," Harry said. "Glad you weren't having to follow her round Diagon Alley or anything like that; you'd've missed the whole thing." "Yes, sir, but I'd've got my physical training in for the day, so it wouldn't have been a total loss," Harrison said, deadpan. Ginny mock-glared at both of them, and they laughed. "I'll be back at the house until my shift's over, then," Harrison said. "Chettle has the evening shift today. Enjoy yourselves." With a genial wave, he Disapparated. "Men," Ginny sighed, winked at Harry, and headed toward the sofa. Katie, Angelina, and Tonks made room for her and she sat down, joining in the conversation with an air of relief. Harry grinned. Bill came up beside Ron, frowning, as their mother slipped back into the kitchen. "Are they still watching Ginny that closely?" he asked, concern evident in his voice. Ron and Harry nodded. "She's the only Seer the Ministry have," Harry said. "She's considered a 'strategic asset' that they're not willing to risk, especially as we've almost certainly not found all of the Death Eaters in the country. They believe her life is in danger because of her Gift, and so she's under twenty-four-hour guard except when she's within the wards here or at home. Even at work she's under guard, except when she's actually in the Department of Mysteries itself. They're taking no chances with her safety." He could hear the bitterness in his voice, and was ashamed of it; why shouldn't he be grateful that they were being so careful of his wife's safety? But they're not keeping her safe because she's Ginny Potter, he thought rebelliously, his jaw clenching. They're doing it because she's the only Seer we've got, and we need her too badly to risk her. It's like locking up a priceless diamond; she's an object of worth to them, not a person. But he had to admit to himself that it was the Department of Mysteries, not the Ministry as a whole, that felt that way; after all, her father was the new Minister for Magic. Bill looked somewhat shaken at Harry's explanation, but then, he, Fleur, and Marjorie had spent much of the past year and a half in France, and he hadn't been as aware of the guards as the rest of the family. "I'd no idea it was so dangerous for her," he said. "The Department of Mysteries is really the only place she could work and be safe," Harry said. He was watching Ginny, who was laughing with the other women with no evidence of self-consciousness or concern whatsoever. She'd either got over whatever had bothered her at work today or, more likely, she'd pushed it to the back of her mind so she could enjoy the evening with her family. "She rarely even comes to my matches because of the security concerns." "That's simply awful, Harry," Fred said from behind them. Both Bill and Harry jumped. "Having guards hanging round all the time." "Yeah," George said. He had come up beside his twin. "No wonder you've not made her pregnant; you've never performed well before an audience. Well, except on the Quidditch pitch." "Ooh, there's a thought," Fred said, consideringly. "Have you tried there, Harry?" "Fred! George!" Bill said sharply as Harry flushed. "Sorry, Harry," George said unrepentantly. Fred just smirked. "You'd better be, you bloody git," Ron growled. Harry glanced at him, a bit surprised to notice the way his shoulders had tensed. I wonder whom he's protecting—Ginny or me? Harry thought. "Oh, come off it, Ron. Harry's family," Fred said in an exasperated tone. "We've been taking the mickey out of him since he was eleven. He knows we're only joking." "Why don't you go pick on Charlie instead?" Ron snapped. "Or better yet, go pull that on Ginny. Your looks would be improved with a few Bat-Bogeys flapping over your face." He nudged Harry's elbow. "Come on, Harry, let's go see if we can help Mum with something." He all but dragged Harry into the kitchen. Glancing back, Harry saw Fred and George watching them, frowning slightly with what looked like confusion. They don't know, he reminded himself. Ron and Hermione knew about the baby Ginny had lost during the battle with Voldemort—Harry and Ron had got very drunk one New Year's Eve and Harry had let something slip in Hermione's hearing. She'd waited until everyone was sober before asking pointedly what he'd meant, and there had seemed to be nothing for it but to tell them both. They'd both been sympathetic—Ron surprisingly so—but Harry had a strong suspicion that the fact that Hermione had been pregnant with Sam at the time had had something to do with it. None of the other Weasley children or their spouses knew, though, and Harry and Ginny had extracted promises from Ron and Hermione to keep it that way. Perhaps that was why the two of them seemed to know how badly Ginny and Harry wanted a child—having had one themselves, the fear of losing him was very real to them. More real than to us, possibly, Harry thought as Molly handed them cutlery and dishes and instructed them to set the tables out in the garden. Despite the pain they'd both gone through, their child had never been more than a missed possibility to both of them; Ginny hadn't realised she was pregnant until she'd lost the baby, and Harry hadn't been told until three months later. They'd never known what they were missing, not really. I suppose I ought to be grateful for that, Harry thought bleakly. If only the possibility of a child hurt so much, how badly off would we have been if we'd known about her pregnancy and been planning for it? The sun was growing close to the horizon, but the days were still warm, even if the nights were beginning to grow cooler. Harry set out the plates while Ron put down serviettes and cutlery at each place setting. Ron was still tense, and Harry was fairly certain he had more to say. At last, Ron grumbled, "I ought to take those two gits and explain to them that they oughtn't tease you and Ginny about children." Harry froze, his heart pounding, then carefully put down the dish he had in hand as he turned round to face Ron. "No, Ron, don't," he said earnestly. "It's not fair to put that on any more of the family than we have to." Ron looked up, meeting Harry's eyes, and grinned sheepishly. "I meant, explain with my fists," he said. "Don't worry, Harry, I'd never tell anyone about that." Mollified, Harry returned to his task, though his heart still raced. "All right," he said. "I just meant," Ron said, "that it's not right to poke fun at you because you've not had a child yet. I mean, you're gone a lot, right? And just because Mum had all of us, doesn't mean you're necessarily going to have a huge family." "Ron," Harry began. "There's nothing wrong with a small family," Ron continued, talking over him. "I mean, Hermione and me have been talking, and we're not sure we want a big family, either. Hermione wants to keep working, for one, and it would be a pain in the arse to have to find someone to mind a houseful of children. Mum would probably do it, but we can't really put that on her; it's not fair." "Ron," Harry said again, a little louder. "I just think the twins should mind their own business. Fred and Angelina don't have any children yet, either, and I heard Katie telling Tonks that she wasn't planning to get pregnant for a year or two after their wedding anyway—" "Ron!" Harry near-shouted. That one Ron couldn't ignore; he looked up, his ears flushing. Harry sighed. "The more you argue with them over it," he said, "the more they'll push. Just let it go, all right?" "Harry, you don't have to put up with—" "Just let it go, Ron," Harry said again, with finality. "We'll take care of things ourselves, if we think it needs doing. Ginny and I aren't helpless." "Well, yeah, I know—" Harry gave Ron a look, and Ron sighed. "All right," he said. "I know neither of you is helpless, but listening to those two prats mouthing off—" Harry set down his last dish and came over to Ron, taking some of the remaining cutlery. "Thanks," he said simply. Just that, but he knew Ron would understand exactly what he meant. Apparently, he did; Ron flashed a crooked grin at him. "You're welcome," he said, and the two of them finished laying the table. *** Harry and Ginny Apparated back to their house just before ten o'clock. Harry knew he should be exhausted, and one part of him was, but the rest of him was oddly exhilarated; he'd won his match that afternoon, he'd spent the evening with the people he'd thought of as family since he'd first come to Hogwarts, and now he had more than twenty-four hours to spend alone with his wife. Ginny ran a hand through her hair and blew out a sigh, then opened the door from the garage into the house and walked quickly on through. Knowing where she was going, he followed more sedately, checking in with Chettle and letting him know they were home, then making certain the door was locked and all the lights were turned out, before heading upstairs. He was halfway up the stairs when he heard the shower come on. In the first few months of their marriage, they'd lived in a small flat whose water heater wasn't always reliable. Rather than use magic, they'd arranged their schedules so they showered at different times: Ginny in the evening, just before bed, and Harry in the morning, when he first got up. Ginny teased him that showering in the morning was redundant for him; he'd just shower again after practice, so what was the point? Harry stuck stubbornly to his morning showers, though; they were part of his waking-up routine, and given the early hour at which he had to report to the pitch, being awake was not always easy. Especially if Ginny had decided to join him in the shower... which was not uncommon. He contemplated whether to offer to wash her back tonight, then decided against it. As soon as they'd arrived at home, Ginny's whole demeanour had changed from energetic and happy to tired and worried, the way she'd looked when she'd first arrived at The Burrow. Clearly, there was still something concerning her—likely the something she'd promised to tell him later. He very much wanted to know what it was. There wasn't much that made his wife that concerned anymore, and he was afraid it was nothing good. He stripped down to his boxers and slid under the covers, propping himself up into a sitting position with his pillow. He picked up the book on his bedside table, but didn't really pay much attention to the words on the page; he was too busy listening for the shower to shut off. The rush of water stopped a few minutes later, and he heard the distinctive sound of water slapping against the bathtub as Ginny wrung out her long, thick hair. He knew her routine so well he could almost see her as she performed it: drying off with a thick, fluffy towel; slipping her nightdress on and wrapping herself in her dressing gown; performing a Drying Charm on her hair, which was so thick that it would take hours to dry on its own; weaving her hair into one long plait down her back, in preparation for bed. At last he heard the doorknob to the bathroom rattle as she turned it, and the familiar sound of her bare feet padding down the hardwood floor of the hallway. She came into the bedroom looking exactly as he'd pictured, and he smiled as she untied her dressing gown, slipped it off, and tossed it across the foot of the bed, then climbed in beside him. He put his book down, scooted down in the bed so he was lying rather than sitting, and turned to face her. "Ready to talk now?" he asked. She rubbed her face with both hands before turning onto her side as well, tucking one arm up under her pillow. "Gilbert called me in because we received a new Prophecy today," she said soberly. "It's only the third since I started working there, and...." She trailed off. "And what?" Harry asked gently. She closed her eyes, then took a deep breath and looked at him again. "And we think it's about you," she said finally. It was like a blow to the solar plexus. Harry stared at her, his brain whirling. "About me?" he managed at last. "Yes," Ginny said reluctantly. "Gilbert thought so at first, but he wasn't sure, so he called me in to verify. It's not completely clear—it doesn't mention you by name or anything—but for anyone who knows what's happened over the past few years, there isn't really anyone else it could refer to." Harry felt his stomach begin to churn. The first Prophecy had been bad enough, but this? "What did it say?" he forced himself to ask, though he wasn't sure he really wanted to know. She took another deep breath, then recited: "The Chosen One's destiny was left unfulfilled A chill walked up his spine as she spoke, and it took him a moment before he could shake it off enough to speak. "Gilbert knew about the first Prophecy, then?" he asked with a credible effort at aplomb, though his stomach was already beginning to roil. The last thing he needed was for Ginny to know how badly this had upset him. "He was the one who was finally able to put your name on it, after Voldemort attacked your parents and tried to kill you." She reached up and gently touched his scar, traced it slowly, then lowered her hand again and met his gaze. "Harry," she said quietly, "I'm scared. I don't want to go through all that again. I don't want to have to worry about losing you." Harry gathered her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. She slid her arms around him, holding him close. "You won't," he said soothingly. "You can't know that," she said, an edge to her voice that he knew wasn't directed at him. "Bloody damn prophecies. Why can't they just leave us alone? Why does it always have to be you that saves the world?" He smiled slightly. That was his Ginny: ready to stand up to the universe in his defence. "Us," he corrected. "You were the one who actually killed Voldemort." "Yes, and apparently I mucked that up as well," she almost snapped. "If you'd done it, we wouldn't have this now." "You're right," Harry said calmly, despite his roiling stomach, "because I wouldn't be here. You Saw it yourself; if I'd tried to take on Voldemort myself, I'd have died—and so would you, because he'd never have let you live." There was a long pause, as Ginny lay very still in his arms, thinking. At last, she said heavily, "You're right. You're right. I'm sorry." "Don't be." He kissed the top of her head. "Love, I won't pretend I'm not worried by this prophecy, because I am. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that prophecies never mean exactly what you think they do. Think about the first one—it said neither can live while the other survives. It did not say that I was the one who would actually kill him." "It implied it," she pointed out. "Very strongly," he agreed. "We all thought that's what it meant. But it turned out not to, didn't it?" She yawned and shifted closer to him. "I'm not convinced," she said. "But I'm too tired to argue." "Me too," he said, stifling a yawn of his own. "Let's get some sleep, and we can go over it again tomorrow. Maybe we can make more sense of it then." "All right." He reached out and picked up his wand from his bedside table. "Nox," he murmured. The lamps went out, and he placed the wand back on the bedside table, then set his glasses beside it. Wrapping both arms around his wife as she twined her legs with his, he lay his head down and tried to compose himself for sleep. "I love you," Ginny said softly into the darkness. He smiled. He never tired of hearing that. "And I love you," he said. Now, if only I don't dream about this new Prophecy....
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