Anew
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"When it is dark enough, you can see the stars." --Charles Beard.
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Harry Potter is nineteen years old when he dies, and Ginny is a wreck.
Reporters swarm her house for days. "How do you feel about this, Mrs. Potter?" "Do you have plans to remarry?" "Was your husband with another woman, the night before his death?" "What is your favourite sort of tea?" "Is it true you're with child?"
The last idiot reporter is an absolute prick in Ginny's opinion, and she hexes him until he is black and blue, a forty-two-year-old, 6"2, pot-bellied man sobbing.
The next day her house is silent.
Hermione and Ron aren't much help. They come over with a meal, asking what they can do to help. Hermione's expression is pale and drawn, and she has red circles around her eyes. Ron doesn't say a word, but it is clear he's been crying.
"How are you doing?" Hermione asks. Ginny opens her mouth to answer, and Hermione promptly bursts into tears.
Ginny can't help feeling a little guilty when she is glad they're gone. They leave, and Ginny is left alone with an empty, hollow feeling in her stomach, where she used to keep Harry –the memories, the feelings, the love- it's all vanished. She feels bitter, angry, but not sad.
She eventually flees to Ireland, buying a small cottage in the country with the little money she's bought. The nights are cold and she goes to sleep each night with the shadow of emerald green eyes haunting her, and nearby screams. Several months pass, and Ginny spends the mornings heaving her guts into the flowerbed and her evenings asleep. Nights are the only time she allows herself some freedom, reading the Muggle books that line the shelves of the entire house. One morning Ginny looks out the window to see a trail of blood on the dirt road.
Ginny bolts up the house, huddling in her cupboard. There are shouts and cries from outside, but she falls to sleep against her silk skirts and satin pyjamas, the lovely clothes she'll never need again, because she is not Ginny Potter anymore. She's Ginny Weasley, the plain, freckled girl who wears patched-up jeans and simple shirts.
She is awakened to a sound at her door. She feels weary, fevered, and is promptly sick in the cupboard. The stench of vomit curls at her nostrils, but before she can let go of her stomach again, the cupboard door is opening, the smell is fading, and a cool hand is rested against her forehead.
"You're sick." Ginny recognizes the voice, but she doesn't. She is miserable and confused, and it's not worth fighting any longer. That is the thought on her mind as her mouth is pried open; water spilling over her lips, and a wet cloth is pressed to her head.
"I don't know where Harry is," she mumbles, barely coherent. There is a dull thought in her head, a vague worry, but she can't quite remember what she's forgotten, all she knows is danger.
"It's me, Ginny." The voice is soft. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Ginny laughs hysterically, until tears are streaming down her face, and her body is wracked by coughs. She's dizzy, she's tired, and she's all-of-a-sudden asleep.
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She awakes to a body pressed against her side, lean and angular and warm. She burrows into it, thinking it's Harry, but is rewarded by a flash of gold.
"Luna?" Ginny had thought nothing could shock her, but this proves just how wrong she was. "What are you doing here?"
Luna's eyes flicker open sleepily, and the hand that is curled around Ginny's waist jolts slightly. "I thought you might need some help."
Her voice is vague as ever, and Ginny is confused. She sits up, pulling off the patchwork quilt, and is surprised to see a baby against Luna's chest.
"That's—mine?" Ginny's voice is shaking, and Luna presses the inky-haired child into her arms.
"Of course," Luna sounds almost practical. "Who else's could it be? My mother used to tell me of stories of unicorns, you know, and they prefer innocence. I don't think I'd ever sleep with a man –unicorns do seem to know when you have."
Ginny stares at her baby in wonder. The girl's eyes are closed, but Ginny is willing to bet all of Gringotts that they're sparkling emerald. The baby's mouth is sticky with what appears to be drool, but Ginny is not repulsed.
"You had her in the night," Luna tells her, twirling her wand around her thin fingers. "I had to knock you out; you were screaming."
Ginny nods. The lack of guilt in Luna's voice is not because she had no issues with hexing Ginny unconscious, but because it had to be done. Ginny understands this. "How did you know where to find me?"
Luna smiles dreamily. "You told me, I suppose."
And Ginny is bewildered, but her baby is in her arms, and Luna is by her side, and Luna's eyes are on hers, and even though she didn't think it would ever feel possible after Harry, her insides are all gooey and nice and suddenly her lips are on Luna's and Luna is mumbling something about unicorns.
Ginny is nineteen years old when her daughter Lily is born, and Luna is smiling.