Author's Note: I do not and never will own Harry Potter.
Written for the Occasion-a-Day Competition/Challenge. September 19 Prompt: Sink a ship. Any ship.
(Also inspired by Halsey's "Control.")
The clock ticks, the only sound in the nearly-empty room. Ginny looks at it again, eyes drawn. Harry's three hours late.
It's nothing new, but the anger lapping at the base of her spine is. The way her fingernails keep digging into her palms is, too, and the crescent-shaped welts keep getting bigger as the clock ticks...and ticks.
The children are in their beds, but she knows they aren't asleep. They can't hear the clock from the back of the house, but perhaps their heartbeat is also in tune with its sound, counting away the seconds until their father steps through the door. She doesn't want to yell or make a scene for their sake, but the anger is hotter than anything she's ever felt.
Tick.
She knows who it is, too, and that burns in the back of her throat like acid. Romilda Vane. She longs to blame the woman, longs to beat her around the head or hex her until she can't breathe, but it takes two to tango, and she isn't quite furious enough that she can hex Harry into oblivion yet. Much as she would like to. It's not fair to curse one and not the other, so Romilda remains on the narrow precipice between safe and not.
"Mummy?"
Lily's voice, small and trembling behind the corner. Breaking the pattern. Ginny closes her eyes for a moment, sighs. Opens them again and pastes a smile on her face. She knows Lily will see through it, but the pretense is important.
"Yes, sweetie?" Ginny asks. The anger leaks through despite her best efforts, and she cringes to see the shadow of fear slide across her youngest's eyes.
"You're scaring me," Lily whispers, and Ginny drops down on her knees on the carpet, reaching her arms out and feeling relief when Lily obediently steps close enough to be clasped.
"I'm sorry," she breathes, feeling Lily's hair tickling her nose, noticing how narrow the small shoulders are beneath her star-patterned pyjamas. "It's not you, Lily honey. You haven't done anything wrong, I'm sorry."
"It's Daddy," Lily sighs, and the forlorn note in her voice makes even the sound of the clock disappear.
"It is," Ginny agrees, settling back on her heels so she can look her daughter in the face. "But that isn't your fault, all right? It isn't James's fault or Albus's fault either."
"Or yours," Lily adds on, and Ginny feels her cheeks heat up with colour.
"Or mine," she repeats, swallowing hard. "Now go to bed, all right? It's late." She presses a dry kiss to Lily's forehead and watches her tiptoe out of the room on bare feet. The clock drones on.
Four hours late.
Footsteps outside the door. The doorknob jiggles, fumbling open. Harry stands there, eyes widening a bit when he sees Ginny, sitting primly in her chair, hands folded in her lap. He looks afraid. You should be scared, Ginny thinks, and the anger roars back to life, flames flickering to the tune of her heartbeat.
"We need to talk," Ginny says, and the clock stops.