Harry Potter and the Painted White Horse
Ginny fought back tears as she paced the tiny space of her living room. She would not cry for that— that— Words could not describe him. But she was not upset, because she didn't care. She was just angry, and confused, and… Probably suffering from an unfortunately-timed visit from Aunt Irma! That was it! She reached the armchair quickly, fighting the urge to kick it, blow it up, feed it to pigeons – at the very least, collapse on it and cry. Angry red sparks flew from the irate woman's heels as she spun, wheeling around to pace back to the bookshelf, setting the rug ablaze as she did so. She scowled, and doused the flames with a quick wave of one finger.
"Gin, please!" The owner of that voice obviously had a death wish, as surely no one was foolish enough to interrupt Ginevra Weasley when her fierce temper and wild magic were so obviously out of control.
"I told you, I'm sorry! It won't happen again baby. I love you!" The voice was also desperate, and a little artificially wobbly – attempting, again, to be everything she wanted to hear. Ginny spared a withering glance for the pathetic figure revealed in green flame. Somehow, its eyes seemed to glow greener than anything, and the fire's black ashes had settled over the silhouette of wild hair.
Then again, if the owner of the voice was Harry Potter, the most powerful wizard to have ever lived, I suppose little Ginny's temper tantrums wouldn't seem like much of a problem.
"Get out of my fireplace Harry!" she spat. "Your crocodile tears are staining the stones."
"Baby, honey, please! She meant nothing to me! They meant nothing to me!"
Her face became ice, voice coming out in a hiss that would make lesser men cringe – or men with greater intelligence. "They… THEY! Harry Potter, you…! You…! You MAGGOT!"
His eyes widened at the accusation, face child-like innocence. "Ginevra, it was just one night! Well, every now and then… plus a few weekends here and there. Oh, and that one hens night a few weeks ago. Fun times."
I kid you not readers, the man actually grinned. Unfortunately for Ginny, you can't really kick fire in the face, and her foot would strongly recommend you didn't try.
She had to give it to him though; the man had balls (though, admittedly, that was the problem). Even in the face of the full wrath of the Weasley's future matriarch, his angel-face façade didn't slip an inch. And if her fury and his confession couldn't break it, Ginny doubted anything ever would.
As Harry continued to blink up at her adoringly, even having the gall to jut out his lower lip, she felt a little more screaming and ranting was in order.
"I trusted you, Harry, I honestly believed in your goodness. You were the love of my life. Ten years, ten years I carried a torch for you! And now here we are, me waiting up at night keeping your bed warm, and you gallivanting around all of England, sewing your wild oats in every willing witch you come across! [AN: Come on children, 'witch' rhymes with…?]
"I can't believe I was so stupid! I should've known, I mean, it's not like I'm a princess in some fairy tale. And for all your Bloody Great Hero act, you're no prince!"
Here, at last, he broke into protest. "Now darlin', that's not very fair!"
She scoffed. "Oh, come on Harry. You've not exactly rushed in here to sweep my off my feet, have you? No leading me up some rose-covered stairwell? This isn't Dollywood, or whatever Hermione calls it, where dreams come true and guys are worth your time." She shook her head. "No, Harry, I've wasted my last dreams on you. It's too late for you and that bloody white horse of yours to come around." (Speaking of white horses, she wondered what her Corporeal Patronus would look like after today?)
And with that, Ginny shut down the Floo network, excluding everyone but herself from the wards in a matter of moments. She knew it wouldn't take Harry long to burst in, wand blazing, but she had a little time to collect some things.
Rushing into her bedroom, Ginny spelled the entire contents of her wardrobe to pack itself into a trunk while she set about grabbing books, photos and memorabilia. Knowing she didn't have time to linger over the memories, she instead let her mind wander to her twisted relationship with Harry, achingly clear now she was looking at it with fresh eyes. 'Fresh' – she snorted. Felt like they'd been force-cleaned with acid.
The easiest things to blame it on, of course, would be age and immaturity; and, of course, naiveté. After all, what else could a ten year-old child be? Of course, after Tom she would never be young and innocent again, but with Harry saving her, that childish crush had just been cemented, and he became the Hero Who Could Do No Wrong.
Ginny still remembered that day so clearly: Harry's voice, drawing her back, calling her away from Tom with his cruel words, and cutting lies. But the thing she remembered most was the eyes… Her own terrified eyes had roamed the dark, slimy walls, locking onto the only flash of colour. Green; piercing green, tinged with relief, and fear, and pain. She'd never really stood a chance.
Of course, she hadn't known then what love really meant. She had loved him, of course she had, but she didn't realise it would be so much work, especially once he'd put himself in danger to save her. She'd thought it would all be moonlit walks, and firelight talks, and white horses and balls, and those little grins; she'd thought it would be Happily Ever After. But no, there was Cho to contend with, and her own tied-up tongue, and an overprotective brother. And Harry: he never seemed to notice her. Eventually he had, but when she finally hung off his arm, Ginny had still felt like a child looking up to a prince; he'd never done much to discourage that notion.
Even years later, when Ginny became sure of his affection, the storybook beauty of love still eluded her. With each day she was forced to cater to Harry's whims – sacrificing dreams, friends, and pride – Ginny was gradually led to a realisation: love is a war, a battle, a duel; you have to fight to gain the upper hand. Keeping it is a more ferocious battle yet. Unfortunately, Harry seemed to have no weakness. Except for pride.
Yes, pride, the very thing she'd wounded tonight. The remembrance brought Ginny jarring back into the present. She glanced down at the object in her hands, a photo in a delicate silver frame. It was a Muggle photograph, taken by Dennis Creevey at the first Ministry Ball she'd attended, mere days after the Final Battle.
She was wearing the most beautiful gown, a poufy extravaganza in a light shade of gold, and her gleaming hair was in ringlets down her back. She was dancing with Harry, he in a traditional black and white tuxedo, looming the appropriate few centimetres above her as he held her close. Though the image itself was stationary, the skill of the photographer and the superiority of Harry's grace made it seem as if they were gliding across the paper.
Ginny sighed. She'd dreamed of Happily Ever After's all her life, and that night it seemed like fairy tales really did come true. But now she knew the truth, and it was far too late for Harry to perform some heroic, White Knight rescue: the only danger left to save her from was him.
Scowling, she was careful to leave all photos containing him behind.
Ginny had just reached her tiny, precious broom closet when the front door burst open, Harry having blasted it away. He stood in the open doorway, wand still smoking and chest heaving – more for dramatic effect than from any real hard work. Spotting her, he fell to his knees.
"Ginny! Baby! Honey! Darling! Sweetheart! Sugar!" He cast around wildly for a moment, eyes darting frantically about the room. He looked down, as if noticing for the first time that he was dressed in a tux similar to the one in the photo. He'd obviously been going for the Prince look, if she knew him at all. And after ten years, Ginny knew a lot.
The suit seemed to inspire some ingenious brainwave, and he grinned. "Princess!" The beam stayed in place, as he apparently waited for the inevitable reaction of swooning and gratitude that such an endearment was likely to provoke. It didn't come. He frowned.
"Baby, you've got to forgive me! I should never have betrayed you! You're the only thing that matters! Please, I'm begging you! You're all I want!"
With each word he stumbled forwards a step, clumsily as he was still on his knees. With an extravagant wand-wave, he held a bouquet of a dozen, long-stemmed red roses. He paused, seemed to think, and with another wave the room was filled with them, vases covering every available surface. Every rose was red and perfect. They looked as false as the sentiment. The smell was sickening.
Ginny glared down at the little man at her feet. Harry was begging. Harry Potter was on his knees, begging for her, Ginny Weasley. It was what she'd wanted all along. But it wasn't right.
"Harry, I'm sorry. Get up." As he began to move: "No, stay there actually, I kind of like this view. Harry, I know you may believe what you're saying, but I can't anymore. I'm not some princess, our life has been anything but a fairy tale, and I can't let you keep sweeping me off my feet every time you do something wrong. You're a liar and a cheat, Harry Potter, and I'm sorry, but you're all wrong for me, or any girl with brains in her head."
He opened his mouth to interrupt, but Ginny shoved in a handful of rose petals, ploughing on as he sputtered and choked. "Someday I'll find someone who will actually treat me well, with the appropriate amount of respect, and fear… Someone who'll love me."
Ginny stepped up to the nearby window, taking her Cleansweep in hand and summoning the shrunken trunk. She turned back to the confused man on his knees, mouth hanging open like a stunned mullet. At her look, he managed to shake himself out of it, grinning cockily and ignoring everything she'd just said.
Ginny rolled her eyes, turning back to the darkening heavens and smiling for the first time all evening. "It's a big world out there, Harry," she murmured, and took to the skies.
She shot through the air, exhilarated by the cool night wind whipping her fiery hair across her face. Yes, it's a big world, and that was a small town, and a small life she left behind her in the dark.
As her little broom reached the shore in record time, Ginny soared out over the ocean, dipping her toes in the choppy waves of the English coast, heading further and further out to sea.
She grinned, the empty space in all directions filling her with ecstatic glee. Because she was free, finally free of Harry Potter and the constricting role of being his girlfriend. She was free from her well-meaning but interfering family, free from society's expectations, free even from the pressures of her job. Free. She was a new woman.
Racing towards her future, and maybe even her destiny, Ginny whispered one final declaration to the wind: "It's too late to catch me now."
AN: Well, readers, what do you think? This was just a pointless bit of... well, a pointless scene really. It may or may not have sparked off some ideas… On a completely unrelated matter, what Ginny/Guy pairings would you like to see? I've already considered Draco, Neville and Oliver. I was thinking also perhaps Dean (again), Seamus, Lee, Krum, Blaise, Terry Boot, Zach Smith, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Ernie Macmillan.
As some of you will doubtless have noticed the high rate of similarities between this fic and a certain song by Taylor Swift, I should admit that I'm pretty hopeless at storylines, and many of my ideas tend to be sparked off from lyrics. I then resort to the lyrics to give me a detailed chain of events.
This fic was purely written as a bit of practice, and a little bit because I just want some more stories up but my worthy ones seem to take forever. I'm very happy with this expression of the image in my head, and I hope it pleases someone out there.
Thanks for taking the time to read my pointless ramblings - both those disguised as fanfic, and my AN. Goodnight all!