Disclaimer: this story is set after the books, before The Cursed Child. I haven't read/seen The Cursed Child, so there might be continuity errors between it and this story. Sorry if there are.
Boggart's Bane
The young witch was walking through her new home with a large cardboard box filled with belongings, looking for places to store them.
It was clear that she was a witch, despite the lack of a pointed black hat upon her casually pulled-back red hair. The things that she briskly pulled from the box and placed on shelves or tucked into cupboards and drawers would have been incomprehensible to most Muggles.
A glass marble the size of a cricket-ball, wedged in the box's corner, was pulsing with an erratic amber glow; something that resembled an archaic egg-timer with a rounded base was swaying gently from side to side, chiming whenever it seemed to feel like it. Some of the items emitted low hums, or belched out the occasional puff of smoke. Any non-magicking observer - other than a Squib - would likely take these mysterious objects for joke shop wares, or props from the set of some sci-fi movie. To the witch, they were everyday items, as familiar to her as a corkscrew or a screwdriver, only twice as useful.
She tucked some spare wands safely away in a handsome wooden box. The box itself was noteworthy, for all that it looked fairly innocuous. It was, in fact, a wedding present from four of her much-loved former teachers. The wood itself was taken from a dead branch that had been expertly clipped from the Whomping Willow. The raw timber had been transfigured into a very finely-made, ornately-carved wand case, about as long as a ruler and no thicker than a few inches. The wood was treated with some kind of rich-coloured glossy lacquer; it was, she had been told, a particularly ingenious treatment of a Stabilizing Draught, able to protect the box's contents from any kind of damage short of fiendfyre. The hinges of the lid had a complex Selectation Charm applied to them, allowing it to only swing open for the box's designated owners.
The witch placed the last of the wands - a sinister-looking blackthorn which she handled gingerly, touching it as little as possible - inside the box, then firmly sealed the lid. She put it in the right-hand drawer of the large cabinet that stood in the hallway of her new house.
This piece of furniture had come with the house, left behind by the cottage's previous owners. Why they had abandoned it, she had no clue; it was very handsome, and extremely useful. It too was a piece of magical paraphernalia: though it was only about four feet wide, it managed to have no less than twelve spacious drawers, and six very roomy cupboards - one of which managed to fit three over-large cauldrons with ample space to spare.
She rummaged absently through the box, picking out whatever took her fancy. Her husband - lovely word that, she thought smugly as she repeated it to herself, feeling the gold band on her finger clink against a pewter goblet as she let her hand roam aimlessly - he wanted the twig-clippers to fix up his broom. Why he had to put his beloved Quidditch mount up on a wall-bracket in the den right now, when none of the lightshades had been hung and several shelves still needed to be assembled, was a mystery to her. Men, honestly! At times he wasn't that different from any of her brothers, who, though she loved them all dearly, were prone to occasional acts of daftness. Still, her hunt for the twig-clippers was a good excuse to tidy other things away. Having to wait before he could lovingly trim the brand new broom's un-straggly tail certainly wouldn't kill him.
Deciding it was macabre to think of death in the same sentence as her newly-wedded spouse, she rummaged in the box with both hands. Her right came up with a Deluminator; her left had seized upon a Sneak-a-scope.
The Deluminator had been her youngest brother's wedding gift to them. She didn't really see why they needed a dedicated gadget just for dousing lights when a multi-purpose wand could do the same just as easily. However, she had seen how eagerly her husband-of-two-minutes had thanked his now brother-in-law for it, and hastily swallowed the teasing remark she had been about to make. The gift obviously had some kind of significance between old friends. She hadn't gotten round to asking her husband about it; she made a mental note to do so. She just hoped that 'put-outer' wasn't some kind of crass double-entendre; otherwise, someone could expect a Bat-Bogey Curse in his Christmas card this year.
The sneak-a-scope had been given to them by Kingsley Shacklebott himself, the current Minister for Magic no less. She imagined that it would be a highly-potent one; if anyone was going to have an industrial-grade sneak-a-scope, it would be him. Looking the two items over, she hastily decided that they shouldn't be kept in the same drawer.
Just then, the cabinet, as if resenting this decision, thudded against the wall.
The witch stared at it. Was it somehow cursed or possessed? Did it eat items as they were put into it, like their second-cousin's walnut bureau used to do? Was that why its previous owners had left it behind? Surely, if it had just devoured the box of wands, treated with various jinx-repellents as it was, it should have immediately been spat back out. Was it just a stray garden gnome that had wandered indoors and gotten trapped inside the panelling?
She automatically backed away from the furniture a step, hand going for the wand in her jeans pocket. Whatever it was, it was about to cop a Disarment Charm to the face.
The cabinet gave another convulsive shudder. This time, the cupboard by her left shin, which she had thought to be locked, fell open. The door gaped, revealing a few narrow shelves, all of which were empty.
At least, they appeared to be empty. Out of nowhere, something dropped to the floor with a loud splat.
It was small, dark, oblong, and flat. At first glance, it seemed innocent enough: a leather-bound book, no bigger than a standard diary.
That was all it was. But the witch stared at it, eyes widened in fright, as if she had been petrified.
Slowly, the book began to move. It opened its own cover, falling flat to expose two blank pages. The white leaves began to fill, first with murky grey, then with a glossy black sheen, as if it had instantaneously been dipped in ink. The dark blot rapidly spread as though poured straight from a bottle, flowing out of the pages, but strangely not spilling onto the floor; it somehow started to pool directly upwards.
The column of ink kept rising, until it towered nearly a foot higher than her head. Gradually, its shape billowed to form hunching shoulders, robe-swathed arms - and a bulbous lump that vaguely resembled a human head.
Gradually, it grew into a spectral form of a human figure, swathed in a sinister black cloak. A white stain blossomed at its peak; a pale face swam into view, handsome and severe, framed by wavy locks of dark hair. A pair of ice-cold eyes gleamed at her, peering down imperiously. The thin lips parted in a triumphant leer.
"Thank you, my dear, for bringing me back once again." The voice was unfathomably cold, yet held some note of exaltation, strangely high in pitch. Though it spoke quietly and composedly, it was unmistakably taunting. "Without you, this would not have been possible. It is because of you that, at long last, I succeeded where I so irksomely failed twenty years ago."
The shadowy shape raised a hand. Clutched between the long, spindly fingers was a small, glittering object: a pair of glasses. They had thin black frames, which had once been round; now they were drastically bent out of shape, mangled into a warped twist of metal. The lenses were cracked, and the remaining glass was flecked with what, to her horror-stricken gaze, appeared to be fresh drops of blood.
She stood staring at them open-mouthed. Her complexion had turned ghostly white, making the freckles on her nose stand out in sharp relief. Her brown eyes were tragically wide, filled with brimming tears.
No... No, no, no, not again... not Harry...
As if summoned by her thoughts, a lanky wizard ambled out of a room and down the hallway behind her. He was looking at the slick-handled broomstick in his hands as he spoke to her.
"Gin, have you found those clippers yet? I need t-"
He broke off mid-sentence as he finally looked up, taking in the scene through round-rimmed glasses which were the exact, undamaged duplicate of the ones clutched in the grinning apparition's hand.
One glimpse told him everything he needed to know. Green eyes blazed emerald; hastily leaning the broom against the nearest wall, he darted forward, drawing his own wand. Without a word, nor a care for his own safety, he interposed himself between the witch and her looming assailant.
At once, the dark shape shimmered. There was a loud crack!
The hanging shadow remained, but it had now changed. The pale, sneering face was now covered by a low, heavy hood that completely concealed its features. The sunlight streaming through the window at the end of the passage seemed to dim, turn a sickly muted hue, as a clammy hand reached out of the cloak's depths, accompanied by a blood-curdling rattle.
He didn't give the slightest flinch. Sizing it up with a steely gaze, he pointed his wand at it.
"Ridikulus!"
The dementor stumbled. All of a sudden, it was no longer black; its cloak was pale lilac, covered in a flowery damask pattern in delicate silver thread. It was the exact same shade and design as the tablecloths they had had at their wedding reception.
"Ha!"
He gave a single short shout of harsh, mirthless laughter. There was another loud crack, and the hall was suddenly empty, save for the two newlyweds. The sunlight felt warm again, the cabinet was no longer shaking.
He lowered his wand, slipping it back into the slender holster he wore, slung over the left sleeve of his t-shirt. It was a weekend, so he wore casual jeans and sneakers, not the uniform of the Auror office; but the holster still found its way over his shoulder, even when he was off-duty.
As the undefeated master of the Elder Wand, he always needed to be a quick draw.
He reached for her, taking the wand from her hand, putting it carefully on the hall stand, and drawing her close. She was trembling all over. With a loud sob, she latched onto him. Curtains of red hair parted; he could see that her face was wet with spilled tears.
They stood for several minutes, he simply holding her while she cried. Her sobs quietened after a while, as she finally regained some of her composure. He kept his arm around her as he steered her down the hall, heading towards the kitchen.
It was still only half-unpacked. Boxes littered the floor, random utensils were spread over the countertop. Pressing her into a chair at the scrubbed wooden table, he took up his wand again, tapping the kettle with its tip. It immediately began to boil.
He had to hunt about in order to find teabags. At one point he half-turned towards her, considering asking if she knew where they were; but, seeing the haunted expression still on her face, he thought better of it. He found them eventually, hidden beneath a large box of chocolate frogs. He plucked up a handful of these, thrusting them onto a plate as he poured hot water into two mugs and added cubes of sugar - one to his own, three to the other. Then he took a small bottle from a box on the mantle, unscrewed the lid, and tipped a few drops of amber liquid into each cup.
He placed one of the steaming mugs in front of her. It was as green as his eyes, emblazoned with the insignia of the Holyhead Harpies. His own bore the words 'Puddlemere United' on its side.
She stared dazedly at the cup for a moment, as if she had forgotten what she was supposed to do with it. Then, seeing him nod wordless encouragement, she raised it to her lips. Almost instantly, she gasped and choked. Besides being far too sugary for her tastes, the drink wasn't just hot; it was fiery. The tingling sensation loosened her tongue, effectively shocking her out of her stupor.
"Did you put pepper imps into this?!"
"Not quite." He grinned at her, raising his own mug; relief was visible in his eyes, glinting out from behind his spectacles. "I added a dash of fire-whiskey." He took a swallow from his cup, smacked his lips appraisingly, and gave a slight grimace. "I might've been a little bit heavy-handed."
"Y'think?" she retorted, taking another sip. Now that she was prepared for it, the spiciness was actually rather pleasant. A comforting sense of warmth seeped through her. She only then realized how cold she had been.
He eyed her warily over the rim of his mug, peering worriedly through glasses that were half-fogged by steam. Putting his tea down, he leaned a pair of spindly elbows on the table. "Do you want to talk about it?"
She shrugged. Her face suddenly felt hot, and it had nothing to do with the tea. "What's to tell?" she replied, her tone intentionally flippant. "You saw it yourself. A silly old boggart slipped out of the cupboard and scared me witless. After everything else that's happened since I was a foolish first-year, I thought that I-"
Her words came to a watery halt. She raised a shaky hand to her face, tears seeping through her fingers.
Despite all the intervening years, she still hadn't quite forgiven herself - for what she had done to the roosters and the cat and the other students, to Hermione of all people. For what she had almost allowed to happen to him.
He was already out of his seat. In a few strides he was round her side of the table, kneeling beside her chair, hugging her consolingly round the shoulders.
"It's okay," he murmured, consolingly. "Everything's alright. He's gone. He won't come back, he won't hurt anyone, not ever again."
"I know that!" she snapped, raising her face from her hands. He didn't draw away at her outburst, though he did raise an eyebrow. Hastily reigning in her temper - it was herself she was angry at, not him - she went on, sheepishly. "I know that. I was there, wasn't I? I saw you defeat him. I should've realized instantly that it wasn't really him. It was stupid."
Hot tears prickled at the corner of her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, scoffing at herself. It wasn't the fright that upset her; not any more. It was the fact that she had been frightened in the first place. She had fought in the Second Wizarding War, hadn't she? She had been right there on the battlefield, standing amongst the rubble of the Great Hall, helplessly watching friends and family fall alongside her. She should be better than this by now. It was all so long ago now, or seemed it. Over the last few years, the Ministry had systematically weeded out the last known dark wizards - largely with her husband's help. They had all been captured, cornered, or killed; and of all of them, the last she should expect to ever see again was him.
Harry rubbed her shoulder comfortingly. "It's alright," he said again, in the same consoling tone. "It's been a hard few years for everyone, despite the danger being past. It has taken a long time to restore things - what things we could fix. It will take a while longer to completely get through this, and some days will be better than others."
He was using words he had heard before; said by Molly Weasley, or by McGonagall. He had repeated them to himself several times, at key moments, when he found himself staring into space, hardly believing that the shadows that had hung over his entire life were finally gone, evaporated into the sunlit days of now. Of the future they were making together.
She shook her head. "But you shouldn't have to put up with me, jibbering and weeping like this," she insisted, disgusted with herself, how weak she was being in front of him - him , who'd by far had the hardest things to bear , yet come through it all with his indomitable sense of self still intact.
Words her mother had told her surfaced in her memory, said way back long before their engagement - back when they had been just been tentatively rekindling their romance, directly after the Battle of Hogwarts. Molly had taken her daughter aside and told her that her boyfriend had barely had a normal day in his life; if she were to make a life with him, it would up to her to give him that normalcy, the sense of safety and showerings of affection that he had so sorely missed during all those years he was at the Dursleys'.
She was failing to keep her end of the bargain, bothering him with her pathetic breakdown. He was so strong, so noble, so valiant - she was no shrinking-violet herself, but how was she supposed to keep up with The Chosen One?
"I should've reacted better," she said, voicing the source of her shame, hard as it was; he watched her face, his expression a blend of puzzlement and concern, wordlessly encouraging her to go on. "I shouldn't have freaked out over something so ordinary. Old, empty houses almost always have boggarts in them; just look at Grimmauld Place. And even if it had really been him, I should've blasted him, disarmed him, thrown the rememberall at him - done something other than just stand there like a ninny, gawking at him. A Gryffindor should do far better than that; McGonagall would never be so sissy. To think t-"
"That's not true," he interrupted her, firmly. "It's not," he reiterated, with a stern blaze of his green eyes, as she opened her mouth to argue with him. "I saw McGonagall nearly faint when she heard about Dumbledore's death. She's probably the strongest woman I know, besides your mother; but she's still human. It's natural to react like that, even now. It's been a long war. We've all had... losses."
He stopped talking, and an awkward silence opened between them. They both knew he was referring to Fred... among others.
"And look at your mother," he went on, doing his best to convince her of... what? That she wasn't a wimp? Because if that was his aim, he might as well not bother.
"What about Mum?" she asked, a little testily.
"She's amazing," he quickly assured her. The admiration in his voice was obvious; if the 'other woman' he was talking about hadn't been her own mother, she might even have been a bit jealous. "She single-handedly took out the Death Eaters' worst lieutenant; but the boggart at Grimauld Place had her absolutely flummoxed." He shuddered a little at the memory of the form her boggart had taken.
"You were fine with this one," she pointed out, almost grudgingly.
The way he had handled it so masterfully made her humiliation even worse. She shouldn't feel so annoyed that he had succeeded where she had failed - there was a reason why he had headed both Dumbledore's Army and the Ministry's post-war task force - and it was just as well one of them didn't lose their head; they couldn't have both hidden behind the couch while the boggart roamed freely round the house. She knew she was acting like a spoiled student who hadn't come top of her Defence Against the Dark Arts class, but she couldn't help making this one snide remark.
He shrugged modestly. "I've handled a few boggarts in my time. There was one in the final maze at the Triwizard Tournament; and before that, Professor Lupin gave me private lessons on them. We even had to pass one in our third-year exam. Everyone struggles against their first one. Your brother froze up when his turned into a giant spider; and Hermione ran screaming from hers."
He couldn't conceal a smirk. Intrigued, she was about to ask what form the boggart had taken in front of her friend, who was usually flawless in all manner of magics; but he went on, speaking a little reluctantly. "And I passed out the first few times I faced one." He grinned ruefully at her. "At least you didn't faint."
She stared at him in surprise. Him, faint? In front of a boggart? He was the bravest person she knew; after the performance he had just put in, cursing Riddle-boggart into oblivion - again - she couldn't imagine him faltering like that. What would make him-?
Her mind flashed rapidly over the form his boggart had taken. A chill crept up her spine. She remembered now; remembered a scene that had been eerily similar to this one. A confined space, suddenly plunged into searing cold; disturbing sounds pressing in on her eardrums; a shrouded figure glided silently across the compartment, its rancid breath rattling sharply beneath its mangy hood-
"Here, have one," he said, taking his seat again and passing her a chocolate frog. "It'll make you feel better."
She obeyed, knowing from experience that he was right. She chewed on it thoughtfully without really savouring it.
"Dementors," she said, slowly. "For you it's dementors..."
"Yes," he affirmed, helping himself to a frog of his own. He took a card featuring Neville Longbottom out of the wrapper; card-Neville grinned broadly and tipped the Sorting Hat at him, raising the Sword of Gryffindor in salute. "Is that so surprising?"
"Well... yes," she admitted. "I thought for sure it would've been..."
"...him," he finished for her. She knew that he preferred to say the actual name, rather than bothering with 'You-Know-Who'; though that name had now changed from 'Voldemort' to 'Riddle'. The rest of the wizarding community was gradually growing bold enough to follow his example, now that the man behind the moniker no longer threatened them. Still, she had been so badly upset this afternoon, he thought it better not to say it out loud. "Lupin said the same thing during my first ever lesson with him."
They both smiled fondly, and a little sadly. Sitting here now eating chocolate frogs took them way back to then, when they had been second- and third-year students - if not necessarily a happier time, it had perhaps been a simpler one.
"Back then, on the train, when the dementors were close to me," she said, rubbing her bare arms in an effort to warm them, as if the mere memory chilled her, "it was much the same as today. I could hear him... his voice, taunting me, as he came out of the diary again... thanking me, telling me that it would be because of me that you... t-that you died..."
The words were hard to say; all the more so because that one and only time she had been exposed to a dementor's presence, she had only been roused from her torment to find that he had collapsed in a heap opposite her. Knowing that he had previously faced Professor Quirrell, a troll, the teachers' best defences, a three-headed dog, a swarm of Acromantulas, and a full-grown basilisk, it had been more than a little bewildering to see him lying prone in a setting as ordinary as the train to school.
He reached across the table and took her hand in his. She could see the faint scars upon its back, like lines of faded cursive running across his knuckles.
"When they're near me," he said, softly, "I can hear him killing my parents."
Her head shot up. She stared at him, her face wearing a potent mix of shock and pity. He wasn't looking at her; he was staring at the kitchen wall past her head, his eyes distant, as if he were listening to sounds that she couldn't hear.
"I could hear my father telling my mother to take me and run... then my mother crying and screaming as he came after her, begging him to spare me... and his laughter, as he-" He stopped abruptly, as if he only just realized what he was saying; he quickly smiled again, giving her hand a squeeze. "What I fear is much the same as what you and your mother do," he told her.
"No wonder you fainted," she said, in a choked voice.
She was trying very hard not to cry again. Even though it had only been a boggart and not a real dementor, he had just subjected himself to that again, for her. She almost asked if he had managed to vanquish the boggart before he began to hear their - his parents' - screams this time, but her mouth wouldn't form the words.
His silence agreed with her. For a moment, she saw the chasm that gaped between them; knew that he had felt and experienced things that she could barely imagine. She squeezed his hand again, using the connection as a bridge to him.
Without words, she told him: I'm here now, you don't have to go through it alone. You're not the boy in the cupboard anymore. If my worst fear is your death, you know what that means - how I feel about you.
He caressed her hand as well, returning the gesture gratefully. He was blessed to have made so many great friends throughout his life; but it had still taken him a while to become accustomed to how very close she was to him. From the time she had scolded him for hiding the fact that Voldemort was getting into his head, he had found that he could confide things to her that he would not dare speak of to anyone else. No one could set him at ease quite as well as she could. After all that he had been through, all the spectres of harrowing experiences that still dogged his heels, that was a mean feat in itself. The warmth and light of her presence made everything else that had happened to him momentarily seem like nothing more than a bad dream.
"Well," he said, lightly tracing his finger along the lifeline on her palm, "you needn't fear. I have no intentions of dying. Not again. Well, not for a while anyway, and not from anything other than old age. I promise."
Her eyes looked searchingly into his. Her expression was slightly pain; he knew she was thinking of that moment outside the doors to the Great Hall, when he made his triumphant entrance, parading the 'dead' body of The Chosen One before those who had fought for their side...
"So says 'The Boy Who Lived,'" she whispered, a little teasingly, but also with reproach.
They both knew that he had no right to make such a promise. Especially given his current profession.
He tried again, ruffling her hair as he grinned impishly down at her. "I wouldn't dare let it happen. I know you'd kill me if I somehow managed to wind up dead."
She frowned sternly back at him, and not just because she found the hair-ruffling mildly patronizing. As much as she knew he was trying to cheer her up, it wasn't the kind of thing to joke about. "If I didn't," she said, squaring her shoulders in an attempt to intimidate that only made his grin widen, "you know my mum certainly would."
"She would," he agreed, heartily. The mental image of Molly coming at him with her wand raised, wearing the same prim violet-coloured twinset she had worn at their wedding, was enough to make them both chuckle.
The unspoken hex on them both was broken. Talking about normal, family things made the past seem like a lifetime ago. The simple reality of the little kitchen - their kitchen - crowded with half-unpacked boxes and loose clutter, reasserted itself. They were here right now, and would protect this little world of theirs just as fiercely as they had the greater wizarding one.
As if to say as much in a silent promise, he went round the table again, pulled her to her feet, and gave her a lingering kiss. He put a bit of extra effort into it, as if to prove just how healthy and alive he was.
When he released her, she hazily sat back down with her lips burning and her senses reeling, as if she had just skolled a whole pint of straight fire-whiskey; though the kiss itself had tasted far more like chocolate frog.
He smiled contentedly when he saw her dazed expression. "I kind of hoped," he said, gathering up the empty cups with a self-satisfied look, "that I might get that broom fixed up in this life, not the next. If you could find those clippers for me..."
"Yes, dear," she muttered, regrouping admirably after the emotional-rollercoaster of the last few minutes, pronouncing the term of endearment with obvious sarcasm. Still, as she passed him on her way out of the kitchen, she put a hand on his shoulder, making him lean down far enough for her to plant a resounding peck on his cheek.
Chuckling at his good-fortune, and with relief at seeing her act like her normal self once more, he went to the sink to wash up the mugs.
An hour or so later, tail-clippers in hand, Harry was smoothing the tail of his otherwise immaculate Firebolt - not the exact one he had owned in school, which had been lost; a replacement model, still the finest broom ever made - where it had been bent when he stood it against the wall. He was trimming a few crumpled twigs away with the care and concentration of a surgeon, when Ginny came into the den, holding something and wearing a mischievous smirk.
"Hey, I was saying to you earlier that the cottage really should have a name, and 'The Burrow II' doesn't really cut it. I think I've got the perfect thing!"
She turned over the plaque in her hands so that it faced him. She had worked a finely-crafted Etching Charm on it. He eyed it approvingly; she was still much better at household spells than he was, at least for now. Then he actually read what it said, and frowned slightly. It proudly proclaimed, in ornate letters:
BOGGART'S BANE
"Very funny," he muttered - though he shared a private grin with his Firebolt - as she trotted outside to install it by the front door, humming the latest tune by the Weird Sisters as she went.
Author's note: Hi there Potter fans, I hope you enjoyed this story! Considering how long I've been a Harry Potter fan, it's amazing that this is my first one for the fandom.
The idea came about when I was randomly looking at articles on Harry Potter Wikia, and I noticed that Ginny didn't have a 'boggart form' entry in her profile. I started thinking about what shape her boggart would take, and it was pretty obvious: a variation on Molly's boggart, a shade of Tom Riddle standing over Harry's body. Besides Harry and Neville (and Cedric obviously), Ginny is, I think, the only other member of the main student-age cast to directly deal with Voldemort; Hermione and Ron help Harry fight against him multiple times, but they noticeably aren't directly in Voldemort's presence until the final battle. This sets Ginny apart early on. I imagine her encounter with the dementors at the beginning of the third book would have been pretty harrowing for her considering what she had just been through the previous year, though this fact is past over as the incident focuses on Harry.
I wanted to point out that, like Harry, Ginny came into contact with Voldemort when she was very young, still only a first year, and that experience likely had a strong impact on her. Because she is the only one besides Harry who came into direct contact with Tom Riddle, that is something that only the pair of them share. Also, I wanted to create a situation where Ginny would confront a boggart, to show the residual fears she still has from her encounter with the dark lord. I doubt Lupin would spring the same lesson Harry's class had on the second years; and if he did, he would have had the foresight to not let Ginny face the boggart just as he did with Harry, lest Voldemort's image would appear in the classroom. My solution was to have Ginny confront a boggart in her first house with Harry after they are married; it was also a chance for Harry to show off his proficiency for dealing with them.
Here are a few notes:
The story is set when Harry is about 20 years old, after he became an Auror at age 17, but before he took over as department head at 26/27 years old. This is just after Ginny and Harry marry, so well before the birth of James Potter II in 2003/4. I'm not sure if Ginny is playing with the Harpies yet; it would be a bit hypocritical of her to make fun of how Harry fusses over his broom if she was.
Speaking of which, Harry's broom was such an important possession to him throughout most of his schooling, I figured that when he set up a house with Ginny, he would indulge himself by buying his first ever broomstick with his own money. I figured it would be a Firebolt, to replace the one he lost during the Seven Potters, in memory of the one Sirius bought him and on which he won the Quidditch Cup. Even if there were newer and better brooms available by the time this story takes place, I think he would buy the exact same model for sentimental reasons. If nothing else, owning a broom would allow him to help Ginny practice, and blow off some steam outside of the office.
The teachers who created the wand-case wedding gift are Sprout, Mcgonagall, Slughorn and Flitwick.
I wrote this story a while ago - I only just added the finishing touches - and I can't for the life of me remember which wand the blackthorn one is supposed to be. It could be one of three: the one Ron brings to replace Harry's broken one; Malfoy's wand, through which Harry gained his mastery of the Elder Wand, and therefore probably needs to protect to preserve his mastery, and might not have been able to return to Malfoy after winning its allegiance; or Bellatrix's wand (though I think that one was actually walnut not blackthorn, and was likely destroyed by Harry or Hermione after the war). I can't remember what purpose the wand-storing scene was supposed to serve, other than showing that Harry is a dedicated Auror and both he and Ginny are careful with items left over from the war; I left the sequence in just because I like it.
I got the idea of the shoulder-holster for Harry's wand from somewhere, maybe from some fan art - I imagine that as the Master of the Elder Wand, he needs to win every duel he finds himself in. I've seen concept pictures of wand-holsters on belts, slung on hips, strapped to wrists or ankles; but I was picturing those gun-holsters that cool agents and private eyes tend to have in movies, worn around the shoulder so the weapon is concealed from view beneath a jacket and easiest to reach.
The Deluminator (Put-Outer) is the same one owned by Dumbledore and inherited by Ron; I imagine he gave it to Harry as a wedding gift, so he could have a memento of his former mentor.
That's it, I felt like writing a fluffy Ginny/Harry piece. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
~ W.J.