Like Clockwork

No one notices it. No one ever notices it but her.

Ginny supposed it was because she was always watching Harry. Always noticing the prowl in his silent steps as he made a round around the house, as if expecting a Death Eater to pop up from behind the sofa and fire a killing curse at him. Always detecting the slight tension in his shoulders whenever a startling noise sprang up, or an unexpected hand clapped down on his shoulder. His hand always flew to the pocket of his jeans where he kept his wand, like clockwork.

Ginny just noticed.

Harry caught her staring sometimes too, a grin settling over his lips as he pressed a kiss to her cheek, asking her what was so interesting.

"You," she would always answer with a cheeky tone, her grin highlighting the freckles that dotted her face, red hair vibrant against his black locks. He would laugh nervously, amused and touched by her answer, but the slight blush on his face always indicated his obvious embarrassment. He would duck his head down, trying to hide his coloured cheeks, and Ginny would quickly change the subject, sensing his uneasiness.

But then, then Ginny would see him in her brother's backyard with their children (their wonderful, beautiful, red-haired, black-haired, brown-eyed, green-eyed children) playing with Rose and Hugo (not their children), chasing them around the grassy green field. They would be playing the muggle game (tag?) and Harry was always 'it'. He would chase the children around for a long time, feigning exhaustion after awhile and collapsing onto the ground with overdramatic gasps of air. And the children would moan and whine in complaint, wanting to continue the game. They would draw closer to him, eyes shining as they knew, knew, exactly what he was going to do, but sneaked closer anyways. And once they were close enough, he would spring up, tickling one of them in the ribs, shouting "you're it!" before leaping away, the rakish grin never leaving his face. The 'not it' players would scream at the top of their lungs, running away as the person who was 'it' came rushing after them. And it didn't matter how loud the screams were, because Ginny would always hear it.

Her laugh. Not particularly high-pitched and not even close to sounding melodious or musical. It didn't sound like the delicate tinkling of bells, or the sweet chirp of a songbird. It didn't infect others with its contagious sound, or make heads swivel at the happy ring in its tone. It was just a laugh.

And yet… Harry's head swivelled at the sound of it, a great grin breaking across his face and threatening to open and laugh as well. He would smile a toothy smile, rising from his low crouch and crossing his arms as if miffed about the sudden laughter. His face would morph into a scowl, as if trying to intimidate the person. But Ginny would notice the slight twitching of his lips, betraying his urge to smile again.

"What are you laughing at?" he would ask, time and time again (like clockwork). And Ginny would turn her head now from her spot under the tree, catching sight of her brother's wife standing in the entrance of the backyard, leaning against the doorframe. Her hair was wild around her face – bushy as many of her friends called it. There was a sparkle in her brown eyes, arms fold neatly at her stomach as she grinned (cheekily) at Harry.

"You."

And Ginny noticed. She noticed Harry's face light up even more at her words, dropping into a light crouch as he regarded his other best friend carefully and deviously. Ginny would hear him ask her (not her, his wife Ginevra Potter, but her, his other best friend, his best mate's wife, his—) "Oh? Well who's laughing now?" before he sprang at her on his quick-as-lightning feet, barely missing her as she darted away into the backyard, screeching at the top of her lungs.

Ginny would watch them, a strangely resigned feeling in her chest as she noticed how Harry tackled her to the ground, laughing heartily as his nimble fingers danced across her ribs. The children would hear her giggles, Rose and Hugo rushing over to retaliate on their uncle and to rescue their mum. But her children (her children) would defend their father (her husband) by attacking their aunt, causing her to wriggle away, laughing and squealing. And once the children had tired, and the adults had tired, they would all collapse against each other in the colourful glow of the sunset, sinking to the grassy floor for a quick rest.

And like clockwork, Harry would always collapse against her, still chuckling softly at his chin rested against the top of her wild (bushy) hair. That was how they stayed, until one-by-one the children started rising, whining about the hunger pains in their stomach as they tugged at whatever article of clothing they could reach.

Ginny would watch them as they rose, noticing – noticing – Harry's large hand on the small of her (not Ginny, but her) back as he led her inside for dinner. And it was only once he reached the doorway, gently nudging her in first, that he would suddenly remember her. Not her, his other best friend, his best mate's wife. But her; Ginny. He would finally remember her, sitting alone in the backyard, resting under a tree as she watched and noticed, and watched and noticed.

"Are you coming, Gin?" he would ask, starting towards her when she looked content to just sit in the shade of the tree, a cool breeze rustling the leaves on the branches. She would nod, not knowing what else to say as she slowly began to rise, her brown eyes never leaving his figure as he neared. "What are you looking at?" he asked, coming close enough to stand beside her as she straightened. And Ginny would look up into his face, trailing her eyes along its handsome contours, memorizing them for what she knew was soon to come as she replied,

"You."

Her tone was cheeky. She was grinning, leaning closer to his body as she stared up at him, hoping – hoping – her brown eyes were sparkling. And, like clockwork, Harry would laugh his nervous laugh. His head would duck down, hiding the blush that spread across his cheeks in embarrassment, a little flustered and confused as he wondered how to reply. But Ginny saved him from that awkwardness (because she had saved Harry numerous times before, and Ginny was his wife so why couldn't Ginny do the same?), commenting loudly on how she was hungry and couldn't wait to eat dinner, grabbing his hand to tug him inside.

And Ginny would notice. She would notice his hand slip out of hers as they reached the doorway, stepping inside to welcome the warm air of the house. She would notice her brother's wife trying in vain to open a jar of pickles, and Ginny would notice Harry reaching out to her, his hand settling assuredly over hers. Lingering, as if wanting to hold on a little longer than he should.

And then Ginny would look at her own hand, and wonder.

She would wonder about Harry and her time alone during the Horcrux hunt. (Ginny never called it their time alone, because that belonged to Harry and Ginny, husband and wife, not Harry and her, best friends and in-laws.) She would wonder about the 'what ifs', and the 'could haves'. About the lingering touches and happier smiles. The absolute certainty set in his shoulders when he entered a house, and she was there. Ginny would wonder about the not clockwork-like and yet completely clockwork-like behaviour Harry had around her.

But then Ginny would notice the gleaming diamond ring on her hand, snugly resting on the finger beside her pinky. She would notice the beauty of it, the way it fit her perfectly, like it was made for her (because really, it was). She would remember the symbol of its existence, what it represented. She would remember why it was there.

Ginevra Potter.

And she would breathe a sigh of relief. She would cradle her left hand to her heart, closing her eyes and thanking Merlin that nothing could take this away from her.

Because Harry married her. Not his other best friend, his best mate's wife, or his sister-in-law. Ginny was the one with the Potter surname. She held all the fortune that came with that bloodline, all the prestige and fame that came with being the Harry Potter's wife. She was the one he went home to, the last face he saw before he went to sleep every night and the first face he saw in the morning. It didn't matter who she was to Harry. Because Ginny was the one he chose. Ginny was the woman he'd dedicated and vowed the rest of his life to. And Harry would honour that vow with every last breath.

And her hand would drop from her heart, dangling uselessly at her side as she watched and noticed, and watched and noticed. (Harry jokingly struggling with the jar, grinning happily – too happily – at the normal, unmelodious laughter before his face set in a scowl, lips twitching—)

Ginny may not hold his heart, not like Hermione Weasley. But Ginny held everything else, and that was enough.

(—just like clockwork.)

A/N The first of four oneshots all dedicated around the epilogue of HP. I disagree with the canon pairings, so I'm attempting to fit my preferred pairings into the canon plotline using as much angst as possible.

Yes? No? Well, I don't care. I'll write what I want anyways. :3

Snowflake Flower