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Author: Velvethope Story: Feeling One's Age Rating: Teens Setting: Pre-OotP Status: Completed Reviews: 13 Words: 4,881 All characters J.K.Rowling; I’m just borrowing. Harry stared at the blank piece of parchment in front of him for what felt like the hundredth time - not feeling an ounce of inspiration and definitely not feeling as though he even knew where to begin. This writing business is certainly harder than it looks, a voice whispered in his head, and he wholeheartedly agreed and sighed as he put his quill down once again. Against his better judgement, and pretty much his entire being, Harry had agreed to write his autobiography as a favour to his old friend Luna Lovegood, for her newest media endeavour - The Genuine Wizard - an offshoot of The Quibbler that would (supposedly) focus ‘on the people that made and lived the news’. Harry found it somewhat amusing that his friend had, at the age of forty-five, suddenly decided to get ‘serious’ about her life’s work. Of course, serious to a Lovegood was a bit different than what serious meant to everyone else, Harry was finding. So far Luna had told him that his autobiography - meant to debut in the first issue of the new magazine - would be in stiff competition for featured article with a detailed account by Agnes P. Troostworth - the woman who had finally answered the immortal question on the existence of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. The problem was, of course, that Harry’s life was far from over, and although he knew he had squeezed in a rather large amount in a short (by wizard standards, at any rate) period of time, he didn’t know where to begin. He didn’t fancy reliving any memories of the Dursleys; he hadn’t seen his old family in about two decades. He didn’t know if he should just focus on the Voldemort parts or not - he didn’t fancy reliving those moments either, to be truthful, but he knew that was the reason anyone would even care to read the piece to begin with. The sound of voices laughing came in through the open window in front of him and he sighed again. Ginny knew he was in the spare bedroom writing and she’d promised she’d keep things quiet for him; so far that hadn’t been the case. An hour ago it had been the sound of explosions coming from the kitchen - she’d decided to try a new recipe Hermione had told her about - cooking it Muggle style, of course, and had almost burned down their house trying to make their stove run on electricity instead of magic. Their youngest daughter, Melissa, had found it as fascinating as her mother, and Harry had had to treat them both for small burns on their hands and arms after the self-stirring cauldron Ginny had employed had decided it didn’t quite like having a surge of non-magical power through its bottom and had exploded practically in their faces. Now he supposed it was Melissa and her brother Sam chasing their mother around the yard and, as he got up to investigate, he saw that he was correct. He and Ginny had eight, rather robust and boisterous children, and while almost all of them were of age and away at Hogwarts (causing their own brand of Potter-Weasley mischief, he was certain - they were practically their own Quidditch team, come to think of it), the two youngest (and twins, to boot) were still at home with them for a least a few more years. Harry closed the window rather crossly and saw Ginny’s head turn at the noise, but he didn’t linger to let her see his exasperated expression, not wanting to add ‘have row with wife’ to his list of things to do today. Ginny had been against his writing the autobiography, surprisingly. Usually she was very much supportive of Harry helping anyone out and she had no problems with his position in the wizarding world and had indeed been the one thing that had kept him sane, once he had truly vanquished Voldemort from their lives. But for some reason she hadn’t yet vocalized to him, Ginny Potter was not very keen to help her husband out in the matter of writing his life down on the page. And if he didn’t love her so much, all of her passive aggressive tendencies of trying to distract him would have caused him to lose his temper long before this. Of course, Harry reflected, he wasn’t exactly suffering - just the other day, the first day he’d sat down to write - Ginny had sent the twins to stay with their grandparents for the day and had decided to distract him in ways that even now made his heart beat a bit faster and his body feel warm all over. Oh yes, Ginny Potter had a whole range of distractions in her arsenal to keep her husband from giving two knuts about some bloody autobiography sitting unfinished on his desk. Twenty five years of marriage and Harry still forgot his own name sometimes when they were together; it was amazing they didn’t have eighteen children instead of eight, he knew. His mind wandering from the task at hand and to the wonder of Birth Control potions, he jumped when he felt a hand on his arm, looking down to see his youngest son Sam smiling at him in all his dirty glory. I swear to Dumbledore she probably told him to roll around in the wet dirt first before coming in here, Harry thought uncharitably to himself as he smiled at his son. “Sam, what did we say about bothering Daddy when he’s trying to write?” Harry asked as he looked around for his wand to clean off his muddy son. “Mum said you wouldn’t mind because I made you something. She said you’d want to see it right away.” Yeah, I bet, thought Harry as Sam put his other hand on his leg, a rather large clump of dirt seeming to move of its own accord from one Potter to the other. Harry finally saw his wand and reached for it, flicking it briefly at Sam, making the dirt disappear from them both. His son frowned down at himself as though upset at being clean again and Harry picked him up, setting him on his lap. “She did, did she? Well, your mother knows me well. What did you make me?” Sam turned and pushed his thick glasses up on his nose, reminding Harry very much of his own young self suddenly, and fixed him with a purposeful stare. “It’s outside. I made it outside. You have to come look. And only I made it. Melly Smelly didn‘t help at all.” Harry didn’t tell his son not to call his sister names and bit back a sigh. He nodded, as Sam crawled down from his lap, already pulling on his hand eagerly. He glanced longingly at the empty piece of parchment again and knew any thought he’d had of getting started had, once again, gone out the window. *** “I’m sorry, but why are all these people coming to dinner tonight again?” Harry asked as Ginny pointed her wand at the chopping block, making sure the potatoes were getting done the way she wanted them. She gave him an exasperated look. “For the tenth time, Harry, it’s our turn to host the family dinner. I told you when you woke up today but all you have on your mind lately is that bloody autobiography. It‘s not my bloody fault you forgot.” “Bloody! Bloody! Bloody!” Sam’s voice rang out loudly from the sitting room and Harry and Ginny both turned and grimaced. Besides calling his sister ‘Melly Smelly’ every chance he could, Sam had also shown a rather annoying habit of picking up every swear word he heard his parents utter, which lately had been getting more colourful (and frequent) than usual, Harry knew. “Well, if you hadn’t sent Sam in to pull me away from it yesterday I wouldn’t had to have spent all day today trying to work on it,” Harry said crossly, reaching into the cupboard and pulling out the correct number of plates to set the table with. Ginny started adding spices to the large cauldron on the stove (now back to working properly - with magic) and flicked her hair over her shoulder as she glanced at him. “You could have worked on it after the kids went to bed,” she said simply, and Harry narrowed his eyes at her. “You know damn well what we did after they finally went to sleep,” he said in a low voice. Ginny looked away, but not before he saw the small smile on her face. “Yes, and you weren’t complaining then, were you? Besides, you‘re the one that initiated it, Harry.” He didn’t say anything and set the table in silence, feeling annoyed, although whether it was at her or himself he didn’t know. It was true, after the twins had finally settled down and been cleaned off again (apparently Sam and Melissa both had decided that what their father needed was a day spent making figures in the mud), he’d pretty much pounced on his wife and convinced her that they needed to clean each other off in the shower, which of course had then led to them going to bed themselves, but definitely not for sleep. But he’d managed to eke out at least a few paragraphs today, deciding to start with his life right before he’d met Hagrid for the first time, when he was eleven. Harry had been feeling fairly good about that progress before realising that he might need to explain how he’d managed to end up with the Dursleys to begin with, so then he had tried to write about things he had no real memory of and had given himself a headache. He had also complained to Ginny about it, finding that she had very little sympathy for his writer’s block. He was sure they would have had a blazing row if Melissa hadn’t come into the room asking about what they were having for dinner. Once a month, someone in the Weasley clan would host a family dinner and they were mostly very fun affairs and a good time was usually had by all. But Ginny was right; he had forgotten she’d told him it was their turn to host and he’d also forgotten to make sure they had enough to drink for the adults and had to make an emergency trip into Hogsmeade looking for Firewhiskey and butterbeer.
Ginny simply looked at Harry and he pursed his lips and held up his hands. “Fine, I’ll make sure he gets dressed.” “You do that, Harry.” Ginny replied sweetly, and he threw her a dirty look, which she didn’t see or he was sure the turnip she’d been adding to the stew would have ended up thrown in his direction. He went looking for his son, finding him standing in front of the mirror in the loo, half-naked and black hair in a mess, with toothpaste everywhere but his mouth. Harry sighed. Through the years, they’d had their share of troubles with their brood, but nothing too major; all the children had been true joys to raise. But he sometimes wondered if the six children before the twins had merely been practice and if Sam was going to finally be the Potter child that helped turn Harry’s own black hair dull grey. Harry leaned against the door and folded his arms. “Sam, what did we tell you about wearing trousers?” His son turned and looked up at him. “You said other people might not understand that I like to be unenumbered. And that I should always wear them in public.” “Yes and…it’s unencumbered, by the way, not unenumbered. So why aren’t you wearing trousers to dinner then?” “Because it’s here at home! That’s not public! It’s just family! They don‘t care if I‘m un…cumberr…ed.” Harry had to admit his son had him there; the Weasleys probably wouldn‘t care if the youngest Potter was running around half-starkers, but he knew his wife would. He kneeled down and turned Sam around, grabbing one of the towels and started to clean off the toothpaste. “How on earth did you get toothpaste in your hair?” Harry asked, pulling at a rather large clump of the whitish green goo that had matted itself into the back of his son‘s head. “That was Melly; she made it fall on me. She‘s mean and smelly, Dad, honest.” Harry had doubts that his sensible daughter had done such a thing unless severely provoked, but kept it to himself. He scowled at his son’s hair, already so much like his own. “You need a haircut, too.” “Mum says she likes it long,” Sam said, touching his head, adding more toothpaste to the mess. “Besides, it just grows back, you know that.” After he’d got most of the toothpaste off of his son, Harry picked up the disregarded pair of trousers and handed them to Sam. “Wear them for me, okay Sam? Your mum doesn’t want people to think we let you run wild around here.” “I don’t run! I walk,” Sam said cleverly as he took the offending piece of clothing from Harry. He made a face and then bit his lip, which Harry understood to mean that his son was trying to make up his mind. He finally gave his father a grudging look. “Okay, I’ll wear them. But only for you. But I’m taking them off again the moment everyone goes home!” Harry smiled faintly and nodded. “All right, fair enough. Go see if your mum needs your help in the kitchen. I think she said something about needing you to rearrange all the pots and pans in the cupboard.” Sam grinned and took off down the stairs as Harry used his wand to clean up the remaining mess in the loo. Helping Sam had reminded Harry of the time his Aunt Petunia had given him an absolutely vile haircut before school was to start and how the next day his hair had grown back. That had been long before Harry had realised he was magical. He heard the sound of Fred and George arriving downstairs and knew he should go down and greet them, but realised that they might distract Ginny long enough (not to mention Sam trying to get into the pots and pans) so that he could jot the memory down for posterity and add it to his autobiography. Harry slipped down the hallway to the spare room, his mind already remembering other instances of how magic had helped change his life. *** “So how goes the writing, Harry? We ran into Loony the other day and…ouch!” Ron looked at his wife, crossly. His face sobered and he suddenly looked apologetic. “Er, that is, we ran into Luna the other day while in Diagon Alley, and she mentioned something about you writing your autobiography for her new magazine?” Harry was glad Ron had decided to broach the topic after Fred and George and most of the other Weasleys had left for the evening; he didn’t think he could take the teasing right now. It was just him, Ginny, Ron and Hermione still sitting at the dinner table, while the twins and Nigel, Ron and Hermione’s youngest son, played Gobstones in the sitting room. Harry saw Ginny roll her eyes at her brother as she got up to get them more coffee. “Er, it’s okay,” Harry said tentatively. Hermione leaned forward. “I think it’s a really nice thing you’re doing for Luna, Harry. She says the expected interest in the story has already sent subscriptions soaring and you know she needs it after almost losing her father’s newspaper last year.” Hermione was referring to Luna’s mistake the year before when she’d placed all of her family’s holdings, including The Quibbler, on the line, for proof that the Blibbering Humdinger actually did exist. She had been the rather sad target of someone’s sick joke and they had tried to rob her completely blind before giving her the ‘proof’ she’d been promised. Harry and Ginny had been part of the special Auror team called in to investigate the matter, and Ginny in particular had been most upset that Luna had allowed someone to take nearly all of her money. Judging by the sound of the dishes getting shoved around behind him though, Harry had the thought that Ginny had got over being upset for Luna. He cleared his throat and shrugged. “I’m not much of a writer, of course, but…it’s been interesting trying to think of everything that’s happened in my life,” he said quietly as Ginny finally came back to the table. “Oh, yes, because your life is practically over now, I reckon,” Ginny said scathingly as she looked at him. Harry saw Ron and Hermione share a glance. “I haven’t had much chance to finish writing,” Harry continued, ignoring the blazing and openly antagonistic look on his wife’s face. “Somehow, I keep getting distracted. The kids, you know…and…other things.” “Er, well, I suggest a nice quiet area where you can think,” Hermione said, nodding. She glanced at Ginny uneasily as though she too could sense Ginny‘s mood change. “I’m sure Ginny’s doing her part to make it quiet for you, although you’re quite right, it can’t be easy with Sam and Melissa underfoot. I‘m glad we just have Nigel at home these days; I don‘t know how you do it, Ginny, taking care of such lively twins. Of course, having raised six children beforehand means you‘re an expert.” Ginny didn’t say anything, and just looked down into her coffee. Harry frowned; it wasn’t like her to be rude, and it certainly wasn’t like her to try and pick a fight with him in front of anyone else. She much preferred to yell at him behind closed doors, he knew. Ron shared a glance with him and they both shrugged. Hermione gave him a helpless look as though to ask ‘what did I say?’ but Harry had nothing to add. They soon left and Ginny set about getting the children to bed as Harry tidied up the kitchen and table. His mind was on Ginny and why she apparently didn’t want him to write his autobiography. From the moment he’d told her about it, she’d done nothing but distract him and make it hard for him to work on it; the question was, why? *** After he realised Ginny wasn’t coming back down, he slowly made his way upstairs, stopping to look in on Melissa and Sam, who already appeared to be asleep. The door to his bedroom was closed and he paused, not certain if he should take that as a sign that Ginny didn’t want to be bothered or not. They’d always made the promise not to go to bed angry, but his wife was in such an odd mood that he didn’t know if the early remarks could be counted as being angry or just grouchy. He’d remembered a few other things he’d like to include in his autobiography and wanted to write them down before he forgot. Turning the other way, he went to the spare room, figuring he could write the ideas out and then make it to bed before it was got too late. If Ginny was already asleep, maybe he’d wake her up and ask her once and for all why she seemed not to want him to do this favour for their friend. *** “Harry, come to bed….” Her voice was soft and he stirred, frowning. He’d been writing of the first time he’d ridden on the Hogwarts Express; the first time he’d met the Weasleys. He felt a hand on the back of his neck and woke up with a start. “If you really want to sleep with your face on the parchment I can bring it back to the bedroom for you,” Ginny said, smirking at him. He blinked at her and then realised his glasses had fallen off. “I was writing,” he said stupidly, running his hand over his face. “Yes, I know, love,” Ginny said softly, pulling him out of the chair. “Come on, the bed is nice and soft. You can work on it in the morning.” “I was making headway,” Harry said stubbornly as he allowed her to lead him to their bed. He felt a slight rush of air around him and realised she’d undressed him with her wand, leaving just his boxers. “I’m sure you were, but now it’s time that you get some rest, Harry. It’s almost three in the morning.” Ginny made him get into the bed and he feebly tried to protest again, but sleep was already starting to pull him under once more. He felt Ginny’s warmth next to him as she settled behind him, her hands wrapping around his waist and he fell away into darkness again, the sound of the train calling him back to when he was eleven…. *** A few hours later, Harry awoke, yawning and reaching for his glasses, not finding them. He realised they were probably still in the spare room, next to the writing he’d done. He turned and saw that he was alone in bed and that it was fairly late in the morning, judging by the light coming through the half-closed curtains. Well, she can’t be too cross with me still, she’s let me have a lie in, he thought to himself and grabbed his dressing gown as he padded into the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later he felt more refreshed and definitely more awake, and his stomach let him know that he’d missed breakfast. He looked in the children’s rooms, finding them empty and the beds made. He walked to the spare room to retrieve his glasses and paused as he heard the rustle of papers from inside. He pushed open the door and saw the fuzzy shape of Ginny sitting at the desk, his autobiography in her hands. “Hey,” he said, coming into the room. For some reason, he felt as though she’d been reading something she shouldn’t have been and then felt ashamed at the feeling. He and Ginny told each other practically everything anyway; he didn’t know why he felt as though he’d just been robbed. She looked up at him and even without his glasses on he could tell she was upset. He walked over to her and put his glasses on, getting a shock as he got a proper look at her. “Ginny? Why are you crying? It’s not that badly written is it?” She shook her head stubbornly and looked away, embarrassed. “No, it’s…you’ve done a very good….” she stopped and finally met his eyes. “Oh, Harry. I’m a horrible wife, please just…forgive me. I didn’t mean to read it all, but you fell asleep writing and then you were talking about it in your sleep and…I should have waited for you to show it to me but….” Harry touched her hand, trying to calm her down. “Er, I didn’t think you were interested, to tell you the truth. You’ve been acting odd about it ever since I told I’d agreed to do it.” “I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t…understand.” Harry bent down so that he was looking up at her and took hold of her hand. “Didn’t understand what? Why have you been trying to stop me from writing?” “I was being stupid. I thought maybe because you’d agreed to do it you felt like your life was over or…that you felt you were getting old. I’ve been trying to remind you that we’re both still young and have a lot of things to keep us that way - the twins, loving each other….” “Ginny, we’re not even fifty yet; I know we’re not old. Dumbledore’s beard, Sam keeps us both on our toes and makes us lose two years of our lives every day he just opens his eyes.” She smiled faintly and squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry, Harry. I should have spoken to you about it, but you seemed so excited about it and…and then I felt bad for wishing that Luna had never asked you to help her. For the first time, I felt tired of everything - you, being who you are, the fame, and the notoriety. I felt like you spending all this time reliving the past would make you feel as though all the good times had passed you by. I‘ve been trying to prove you wrong.” “Well, that explains why our sex life has suddenly increased with frequency and experimentation,” Harry said dryly, shaking his head at her. She smiled again and bit her lip. “Well, no, that was just a bonus, really.” He arched his eyebrow at her and she giggled softly. She looked down at the papers in her hand and then gave him a serious look. “It’s really wonderful, Harry. It…it almost reads like a book. Did you do that on purpose?” Harry frowned and took the papers from her. “No, not really. It’s just what happens whenever I sit down to write it. Maybe it helps me remember things better, to write as though it’s someone else’s life.” “I liked the part where you sat on the train watching me run after it; I’d forgotten that. I didn’t think you’d even noticed me back then.” “Ginny, you have bright red hair and you were a little girl crying and running after a train, why wouldn’t I notice you?” She shrugged. “I just like the way you wrote it, Harry. It sounds so…romantic. Even though it wasn’t, even though it was essentially the first time I ever made a fool out myself in front of you. Luckily for us both it wasn‘t the last.” Harry snorted and put the papers on the desk. “I’m not sure about romantic, but I do remember that you stood out in my mind; your family fascinated me, as you recall.” Ginny nodded and leaned forward suddenly, kissing him. They broke apart and he felt as though his head was spinning. “What was that for?” he asked as he stood up. “For being you,” Ginny said, joining him. She smiled when she saw his skin turn pink. “I can’t believe I can still make you blush, Potter.” Harry kissed her again, pulling her into his arms. This time when they broke apart it was Ginny’s turn to look a bit dazzled and he smirked down at her. “And I can’t believe you thought I felt old. Do I have to prove to you that I’m not feeling any such thing?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him and grinned. “Maybe. You know, Mum came over and picked up the kids; they’re going into London today. There’s no telling when they’ll be back.” “Oh?” Harry asked, a plan on what he wanted to do with the rest of his day suddenly forming in his head. “Of course, if you want to spend the day writing, I understand. After all, I did promise you peace and quiet and I sorely failed at that.” “There’ll be time enough for that after,” he whispered as he kissed the side of her neck, breathing in the sweet flowery scent of her that he knew he would never tire of, as long as he lived. He felt the old familiar roaring of the monster inside his chest as Ginny flipped her hair over her shoulder and gave him a speculative look. “Do you honestly think I’m going to leave you with enough energy to move after I‘m done with you, Potter?” “Hmm, I can see it now, ‘Harry Potter Fails to Finish Memoirs Before Wife Shags Him to Death’. Luna will have a field day with that article topic. She‘ll be writing about the dangers of sex in no time.” Ginny turned and started leading him back to their bedroom. She paused at the door and ran her hand down the front of his dressing gown, untying it. “Sod Luna.” “Ginevra Molly Weasley-Potter, I’m ashamed of you,” Harry said teasingly. Ginny entered their bedroom and removed the jumper she was wearing, pulling it up over her head. Harry couldn’t help but let his eyes travel over his wife’s lovelier assets. “Hmm, perhaps I should ask Luna if she wants the more naughty details of your life known; I could always offer to write those,” Ginny said, her voice low. Harry growled at her. “You wouldn’t dare.” “Wouldn’t I? I could do it under a pseudonym.” Ginny laughed coquettishly and then removed the rest of her clothes, and Harry didn’t think about writing the rest of the day. Or the day after that. But he knew he would get it done sometime; as soon as he and Ginny finally started to act and feel their age. *** |