A/N: This is a little one-shot that struck me one day. Note the 'one-shot'; I do not intend to continue with this, although it may happen. My first fic; please read and review thoughtfully. As is the case on this entire site, I don't own any characters in this story. They all belong to Ms. Rowling, a wonderfully talented lady.
Harry Potter's palms were sweating as he awoke, remembering the date. July 30, 2005...the bold, black letters on his wall calendar confirmed it, staring blankly at him from across his dingy apartment. Tomorrow was his twenty-fifth birthday. Tomorrow would decide it, then.
There were butterflies in his stomach as he looked to his right and fumbled for his glasses. The numbers on the clock were a red blur until he slipped on his spectacles—bloody hell, it was nearly noon! Even if it was Saturday, he still felt guilty about sleeping in so late. He rolled out of bed, trying to smooth his perpetually errant hair, which looked as if it had been hit by a small tornado during the night.
Harry fumbled around in the kitchen, searching his cabinets for a frying pan. He felt like having an omelette, which was the most complex dish he knew how to prepare. Being a bachelor for so long hadn't enriched the variety of his day-to-day meals. Even Mrs. Weasley was taking a worried, motherly interest in Harry's lack of female interaction. With five of her children married and all of them out of the house, she had firmly taken it upon herself to improve Harry's lot. She'd invited him to the Burrow dozens of times for dinner, with usually one or two Weasley children or grandchildren gathered around the cramped kitchen table.
"Ginny's moving to Paris to live with Bill and Fleur," Molly had enthused during their most recent meal, about a month ago. Ginny, who had been present, had merely stared meditatively at the fish on her plate. "Got a real talent for Magical Art...I'm afraid that's a skill completely lacking at Hogwarts. We never knew she was so talented until she started sketching on her own. Oh! Did you hear that George is engaged?"
Harry, who'd been in mid-sip of his tea, spluttered helplessly. "George? Your son George?" he asked, incredulous.
"One and the same," Molly Weasley confirmed, beaming. "Apparently a young lady wandered into his Hogsmeade shop when they were visiting—making sure everything was shipshape, of course—and pulled out a box of fake wands from the shelf. Well, they all tumbled down on her head, and George was the first to extract her from the pile. It's good, really," Mrs. Weasley said reflectively, "that he's picked a girl who likes to laugh as much as he does." She picked at her creamed spinach. "And Ron and Hermione, of course, are expecting their third already, but you'd probably heard that before." A pause, then the inevitable question, accompanied by Mrs. Weasley's hawkish eye: "What about you, Harry? Are you any nearer to settling down?"
Without fail, Harry would turn red and mutter some excuse. This time, he picked "well, you know, the life of an Auror isn't an easy one, Mrs. Weasley...I'm awfully busy, really..." Mr. Weasley, meanwhile, had recognized Harry's look of chagrin and launched loudly into an elaborate Misuse of Muggle Artifacts work story (a bewitched thimble biting off unsuspecting Muggle fingers).
Harry had leaned over to Ginny, sitting on his left. "Why doesn't she pick on Percy for a change?"
Ginny rolled her eyes. "You know Percy," she said. "He's married to his work at the Ministry. I think Mum's already planning the wedding to his outbox." Harry suppressed a snort. "At least you're not Mum's only daughter," she added. "That's pressure for you. 'Ginny, don't play Quidditch with your brothers, come help me with the food. No respectable wizard is going to want to marry a girl who can't cook, no matter how many times she's caught the Snitch.' Or, 'Ginny, I think this pair of robes is really becoming; those old ones won't catch anyone's eye.' At least you get a break every once in a while."
She'd been positively radiant that night, Harry thought fondly, and bet that if she'd been wearing a potato sack she'd have looked just as alive. His stomach gave another jump, as he thought of the date again.
It was hard to believe, really, that the source of all his anxiety was a promise he'd capriciously tossed off seven years ago.
The eggs sizzled as he cracked them on the side of the pan and dumped them in; tossing some cheese and mushrooms in for good measure, he moved into the breakfast nook. The pensieve was resting on his kitchen table, on top of a stack of month-old copies of the Daily Prophet. With a pang of guilt he realized how mundane it looked sitting there, silvery vapor rising from its surface. It belonged on an ornate shelf in Dumbledore's office, next to a host of other exotic trinkets, not in the middle of a dingy flat in the heart of London. But Dumbledore's office didn't exist anymore, per se. Professor McGonagall had replaced all the oddities in the headmaster's private quarters with sensible, utilitarian fixtures.
Almost unthinkingly, he took his holly wand from the elastic band of his boxer shorts and plunged its tip into the stone bowl, searching, pursuing a specific memory. It jumped a little in his hand—he'd found it. Swallowing, he lifted the wand to his temple and pressed, as a warm stream of memory flooded his mind...
He was back at Hogwarts during his seventh year, suddenly transported into the Gryffindor common room. It was just as he had remembered it: warm, intimate, and currently boisterous. The seventh years had just finished taking their NEWTs and were in the middle of letting the rest of Gryffindor House know it.
"We're finally done," Lavender squealed to Parvati. "As soon as I get off Platform Nine and Three Quarters I'm going to Pritchett's Pampered Witch and getting my nails done! They've got those new ones now, that shoot sparks and..."
Harry wandered around the room, looking for his seventh-year self, as Lavender continued her lengthy explanation of what she wanted during her manicure. Seamus and Dean were taking long swigs of butterbeer in a corner, discussing in jovial, relaxed tones who they thought had the best chance at the Quidditch World Cup this year.
"It's gonna be Ireland," said Seamus stoutly. "They've only got the best Seeker this side of the world, that's for sure."
Dean shook his head. "Come on, Seamus, be reasonable," he said, chuckling. "Sure O'Leary's good, but the rest of the team can't play worth a damn. Last time Connelly tried the Starfish with Stick, he ended up performing the Starfish No-Stick and earned a week's stay in St. Mungo's. Be honest with yourself, they haven't done anything remarkable since the World Cup during our fourth year. Now, Uganda, there's a team that—"
"Harry?" a quiet voice asked.
He whirled around to see Ginny Weasley standing expectantly at the side of an armchair in front of the fire. How could he have forgotten? Of course...Harry wove through the crowds of students congratulating the seventh years and wishing them farewell, sidling up to the overstuffed chair arm opposite Ginny.
The dancing firelight played off her features, turning her already-red hair into flame. Harry could tell that under the surface, there was a strong, mature woman brewing inside this girl, even without the benefit of seven years' time having already told him that. She was very pretty, even now. "Harry? Are you all right?"
Harry turned to see himself at seventeen, staring moodily into the fire. He knew what was weighing on his mind at the time. He'd survived to his seventh year—but for what? Simply to be destroyed? He'd subconsciously known from the start that the Dark Lord would make his move at the end of his Hogwarts career. But now, here he was...and where was Voldemort?
"I'm...I'm fine, Ginny," he returned, a little abruptly. Realizing he'd spoken a bit harshly, he added, "Do you need anything?"
The tone of his voice hadn't gone unnoticed. "Have you seen Ron and Hermione lately?"
Harry, watching the exchange, snorted. He wouldn't know it at the time, of course, but Ron and Hermione were currently snogging at the top of the astronomy tower. Seventeen year-old Harry shifted in his seat. "No, not since the exams ended."
Ginny put a hand on the chair's arm, running it up and down the upholstery nervously. She was working up the courage to say something next. "Why don't we take a stroll on the grounds, and clear our heads? It's awfully noisy in here."
It had been the last thing he'd wanted to do, and Harry saw himself suppress a twinge of annoyance before reluctantly agreeing. "Yeah, sure, Ginny."
They stepped through the portrait hole, Harry following, narrowly dodging a stream of Weasley's Little Thunder Firecrackers that a fifth-year had set off. "Fred and George's handiwork is everywhere, isn't it?" he observed, attempting to make conversation.
"No one can say they're not good at what they do," Ginny said. "They're thinking about opening a new location in Hogsmeade. I daresay Filch won't be too thrilled about that."
They made their way down the grand staircase in silence, catching a bit of the mayhem Peeves was causing—this time, he was hounding a group of second-year girls, chanting a very naughty rhyme about Professor Snape, but neither Harry nor Ginny seemed to notice very much. "Are you happy, Harry?" Ginny asked after they had emerged outside. "You've finished all your NEWTs...how do you think you did?"
"Oh," he said neutrally, "all right. You remember how you felt after finishing your OWLs last year, don't you?"
"Yes," she said. "It was like someone had lifted a ten-ton weight off my back."
"Magnify that by twenty," Harry stated. "I probably wouldn't care if I failed every bloody test. I'm just glad they're over."
"You're still planning to go through with Auror training, though?" Ginny asked.
"If I pass all my NEWTs, and if I make it through the training itself. It's tricky business, from what I understand."
They were rounding the lake now, pebbles crunching underfoot. Harry picked up one and flung it across the water; he and Ginny both watched it skim over the surface a few times before it sank to the bottom.
Suddenly, Ginny slipped his hand into his, and he didn't feel right about it somehow. It was awkward, and funny, and felt out of place. Sensing she had an ulterior motive, he asked, "Ginny, are you feeling alright? Did you want to talk to me specifically?"
She wasn't really prepared for this. "I...uhhh..." she stuttered, not knowing what to say. "It's just that"—she blinked a few times, then burst into tears.
Harry couldn't help but think of the time during his fifth year when Cho Chang had almost done the same thing over a similarly harmless question, as he watched himself give Ginny a feeble pat on the back. "I'm just frightened," she sobbed, "about Vol—You-Know-Who."
"Oh, that," he said, a raw sense of dread building inside him.
"I'm so worried, Harry," she confessed. "Everybody knows it's coming, and we're all scared for ourselves, and for our families, and"—she hiccoughed slightly—"for you."
Harry opened his arms and let Ginny stumble against him, as he wrapped her tightly. "Oh, Ginny, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault, bringing this on you. I never wanted this."
Ginny shook her head against his shoulder. "No, it's not. It's my own silly fault for—for feeling this way about you."
He saw himself connect the dots and realize with a quick shock that Ginny wasn't talking to him as a brother. She cried into his school robes for a while longer as he remained silent, patting her back every so often and trying to think desperately on what to say next.
Ginny pulled away first, wiping her eyes on her long sleeve, still sniffling and hiccoughing. Harry couldn't think of much to say, but struggled out a few sentences: "Ginny, you're like a sister to me. I'm sorry."
"We could just...we could give it a go, couldn't we?" she said bravely.
"Ginny, I don't know if I'll even be alive in a few months. It would be unfair to you if I started something I couldn't finish."
"Oh, Harry, please," she said, becoming upset again, "don't talk that way."
"It's the truth," he returned neutrally.
Ginny sniffed, her breath finally catching up with her as the anger in her veins began to boil. "Look, Harry, you're going to win. It can't happen any other way. If Voldemort wins, the wizarding world is going to live in fear for the rest of time...and that just can't happen."
"You don't know what it's like!" Harry exploded, turning away from her. "You don't understand how I feel. That's exactly what's driving me up the wall. Everyone's futures rest on my shoulders. If I fail, everybody loses. I never asked for this."
She sighed. "You forget who you're talking to sometimes. I was possessed by Lord Voldemort. I know how truly despicable he is. I'm no stranger to his malice, either," she reminded him impatiently. Her voice changed. "But there is good in you, in the core of your being, and that's something he doesn't understand. He'll never understand it. I believe the good in you can defeat a thousand Lord Voldemorts."
Ginny stared at the ground for a few seconds, then raised her eyes to Harry's. "Just give me a chance, Harry," she implored. Harry was furious with himself as he watched the exchange. Why hadn't he looked at her then—really looked at her? He could have seen loyalty, courage and sacrifice in her pained features, a willingness to follow him to the bitter end. Why had he simply thrown that devotion away, tossed it aside like a piece of rubbish? "Harry, I'll never desert you."
"I'm sorry, Ginny," he said firmly. "I just don't feel the same way about you."
Immediately, her eyes blurred with tears, and she turned away. Harry's heart felt torn in two by the sight. His seventeen year old self reached a hand out to her shoulder. "Look, Ginny," he said imploringly, "Ginny, I'll make you a promise. If I'm still around by my twenty-fifth birthday, and you're not seeing anyone, we'll give it a try."
The words had tumbled out of his mouth without any thought or pretense whatsoever. Ginny was astonished, as she breathed in deeply for a few moments. She turned towards him. "Fair enough."
With that, the color and life drained out of the scene entirely, as if someone had just taken a bucket of water to a sidewalk chalk drawing. Harry found his head resting on top of the stack of old papers, the smell of newsprint filling his nostrils. His hand had gone slack and his wand had rolled off the edge of the table. How could he have been so utterly pigheaded?
Ginny, of course, hadn't any shortage of suitors during the next seven years. She'd dated Michael Corner, her first Hogwarts beau, off-and on after school until he broke it off suddenly, citing 'personal differences.' "Also known as cheating," Hermione had snorted. Oliver Wood, too, had taken an interest in Ginny. He'd since become Keeper for the Wimbourne Wasps, and was playing brilliantly. However, they'd barely gotten to know each other before Wood had a rather nasty encounter with a bludger, swiftly ending his playing career. He was now coaching in Kenya, and he and Ginny still corresponded, though as friends.
As for himself...he'd been quite solitary. When he'd dashed off the promise, he thought he was the one in control. It seemed that everyone he met now, outside his own circle of friends, regarded him with a sense of mixed reverence and fear. He'd been the boy who'd driven You-Know-Who back into hiding—not without terrible sacrifice. Dumbledore would never be by Harry's side again, to guide him with his unlimited wisdom, because Voldemort's hatred had consumed him. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wasn't dead. No, he was still plotting, and just as obsessed with destroying Harry as he'd ever been. Anyone who attached themselves to Harry, it seemed, was avowing certain death. After seven years of people staring and talking behind his back even more pointedly, Harry could now see he was a fool for discounting Ginny's loyalties.
Rising sharply, he noted the acrid smell of burned eggs. One meal ruined, two more to go. At least he'd be having dinner with Ron and Hermione later in the evening. There wasn't anything he could do to screw that one up...he didn't think.
Harry whiled away the rest of the afternoon catching up on back issues of The Quibbler, which had by this time become a widely respected investigative journal. The most controversial scientific theories were never turned away, which made for some very fascinating reading—parallel wizarding dimensions, speculation on the origin of magic, attempts at logical explanations of charm work, and so forth. Before he realized it, the hands on his wristwatch were nearing nine o'clock, which was when he'd promised to meet Ron and Hermione for dinner.
He freshened up a bit, shrugged on a dark blazer, and headed out the door of his flat, being sure to lock both deadbolts before he left. This part of London was shabby, to say the absolute least, and there were so many strange sights and sounds any wizard could have mistaken it for a very active, though seedy, magical community. Harry didn't waste his time, hastening to the Underground station nearest him.
Catching the appropriate train, he headed uptown and arrived at his destination after twenty minutes' ride. Emerging into the cool night air of street level, and confronted with the immediacy and blaring noise of the traffic, he was struck with how mundane it all was. These Muggles didn't know a thing about the Dark Lord—"Lord Voldy-thing," Uncle Vernon had called him once—and lived in perfect, blissful ignorance of his existence. Somewhere, though, he was lurking. Harry wondered if Muggles would know if Voldemort returned to full strength. If it would shake the magical world to its core, he'd be damned if they didn't notice something unusual.
The restaurant was one of those stylish hotspots with glass walls and tropical fishtanks—Ron had picked this place out, Harry wagered, just by virtue of its trendiness. "Muggle things," he could hear Ron say wistfully. "You can't say they don't try and make up for being non-magic folk, what with all the crazy things they build."
The pair were waiting just inside, and greeted Harry enthusiastically. "Hullo, Harry," Ron said, pumping his hand vigorously.
Hermione gave him a graceful embrace and a peck on the cheek. "Hi, Harry," she said. "How's everything?"
He mumbled something remotely positive, and Hermione seemed to take it. "We'll be sitting down now," she said, motioning them over to the maitre'd. Even after all these years, Hermione was still as bossy as ever. "I'm sorry we couldn't meet you on your birthday, Harry," she apologized. "We couldn't get a sitter for Sunday night. You know Nigel's almost five, now? He'll be starting kindergarten soon."
"Firmly magical boy, though," Ron reassured him. "Hermione just wanted him brought up with both Muggle and wizarding ways."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ron, quiet," she hissed. "We're not exactly at the Hog's Head, you know."
Their table was in a quiet corner, for which Harry was silently grateful. Ron and Hermione chattered back and forth about their sons' accomplishments, the house in Brighton they were renovating, and other pleasant aspects of married life, so that Harry didn't have to do very much but look interested and murmur an occasional "Is that so?"
They'd been such good friends at Hogwarts, the three of them, Harry thought. But when Ron and Hermione had paired off, Harry couldn't help but feel slighted. Not that he'd felt anything past friendship for Hermione—but he was still jealous of all the attention she gave Ron now, which only heightened his current sense of isolation.
"We decided we'd tell you tonight, Harry," Hermione said, beaming, as Harry snapped back to reality. She sent a look of adoration towards her husband. "On Thursday we found out the baby's a boy, and Ron and I decided to name him after you."
Ron grinned. "We expect you to be godfather, of course, as you are for the rest of the lot."
Harry smiled in return. "I'm really honored, you two," he said genuinely. "Thanks." Before his nerves could stop him, he asked, "How's Ginny doing in Paris?"
Ron guffawed. "Pretty well, I imagine. You remember she stayed with Bill and Fleur last summer—well, Fleur's cousin took a liking to her. Name's Julian Le-something. Guess I'll know his name soon enough, as he'll be my brother-in-law."
Harry felt his heart drop past his knees. "They're engaged?"
"They'd better be," Ron said furiously, "the bastard knocked my sister up."
Too shocked to say much else, Harry stammered, "Is…is that so...?"
"Her voice was all crackly, but I could tell that much. She called from one of those...erm...cellophanes?"
"Cell phones," Hermione corrected gently.
"Right," Ron said thickly, through a mouthful of bread. "Muggles..." he said exasperatedly, shaking his head. "Ginny's always been involved with their silly technology, even though there are much better, magical ways of doing things—"
Hermione frowned. "Ron..." she warned, from behind gritted teeth.
"Sorry. Anyway, she tried to get me to buy a 'computator,' or something like that. Said she could talk to us on one from anyplace in the world. I shouted at one to call Ginny and it didn't do a damn thing. Bloody useless, if you ask me..."
The rest of the evening passed in a dreary haze for Harry, and it was nearing half-past eleven before any of them realized the time. "Oh, goodness," Hermione giggled. "I can't remember the last time Ron and I were out this late. We might as well make the most of it. Would you like to go dancing with us, Harry?"
Somehow, the idea of seeing his two best friends nuzzling each other while he morosely stared after them, alone, didn't seem like much fun. "No thanks," he said, excusing himself. "I'd better get home. Thanks so much, you two, for dinner."
For being such a perceptive female, Harry thought glumly as he strode out of the restaurant, Hermione hadn't seemed to notice his lack of high spirits. She'd been too lost in her husband to see that. Even after being married for six years, they still acted like giddy newlyweds. He wanted someone to look at him like that.
He wanted Ginny.
Bypassing the Underground station, he decided to walk to the next, and when he reached that one, he skipped it too. He needed time to think, as he angrily kicked at an aluminum can on the sidewalk. He was a complete idiot, and he'd probably be an idiot that was alone for the rest of his life.
Far off in the distance and in the heart of the city, a church bell pealed, signaling midnight. A quick glance at his wristwatch confirmed the time. "Happy birthday," he mumbled to himself, as he was immediately reminded of a birthday long ago. In the cold hut on the rock, he'd traced his own birthday cake and wished himself a happy eleventh. Minutes afterward, Hagrid had appeared as his lifeline. The gamekeeper had rescued Harry from his own misery. But here, on his twenty-fifth, there would be no savior—no cross-Channel phone call from Ginny, no owl, no visit. Harry wondered if she even remembered that immature promise given in the spur of the moment.
Ahead of him, Harry heard a curious, sharp crack, that sounded like someone Apparating, but he berated himself for letting his imagination take advantage of him. Deep down he'd hoped that Ginny would appear out of thin air and make everything better, he supposed, but it simply wasn't going to happen. The source of the sound became apparent quickly, however, as it started to pour down raining. He'd just passed up the Underground station nearest his flat, and it didn't occur to him until he was more than halfway home that he could have just walked back to the station and wait out the storm. Oh well, he thought miserably, at least it fit the mood.
He was soaked to the bone and had three blocks to go when he spotted a figure holding an umbrella shouting his name. "Harry!" it shouted, and as it drew closer, Harry's heart stopped.
It was Ginny.
Now he wasn't sure if he should be happy or miserable. Here Ginny had suddenly appeared, but as forbidden fruit. She was smiling as she approached him, though, and the umbrella was a welcome respite from the downpour. "Harry, dear!" she said jovially. "I Flooed to your apartment, but didn't see you there, so I Apparated outside to see if you weren't far off. Do you...erm...often take these rain walks?"
"I...uh, no," he said, attempting to explain himself. "I just got back from dinner with Ron and Hermione and decided I'd rather walk back instead of taking the Underground. Apparating's a little dangerous around here, it being a Muggle neighborhood."
"I didn't realize that until later, and I'm sorry," Ginny apologized.
"No harm done," said Harry stoutly.
She smiled at him from under the umbrella. "Well, are you going to invite me in, or are we going to stand in the rain all night?"
"Oh, yeah, of course," Harry said, taking the umbrella and leading the way. Here she was...close enough to touch...but she wasn't his. He unlocked the door and held it open for her as she passed in front of him.
"You're soaked to the bone," she said matter-of-factly. "We'll chat just as soon as you're changed and warm. I can wait."
"Thanks," Harry said, as he retreated into his bedroom. Shedding his clothes, he noticed they were almost as wet as if he'd jumped into a pool fully clothed. He slipped on a warm pullover and a pair of trousers and emerged drying his hair. "So...erm...what brings you here?"
She laughed, flopping down on his sofa. "Oh, come on, Harry, I think you know why."
Ginny was mocking him now, he thought, as the anger seethed through his body. He put on a neutral face and asked coldly, "How are things with Julien?"
Again, she laughed, infuriating Harry even more. "You can't blame him for lack of trying," she said. "He's certainly persistent."
"Persistent enough to get you pregnant," Harry finished.
"What?" Ginny gasped, taken aback.
"Ron told me just tonight," Harry said supremely. "I don't know why you've come, Ginny. Do you like to see people suffer? Or do you just want to have the last laugh on The Boy Who Lived?"
"My idiot brother," Ginny raged, through clenched teeth.
"Was I not supposed to find out?" Harry continued sarcastically. "Did you want to give that detail to me in person? What was it that you wanted, Ginny?"
"No, no, no," she shouted, irritated. "It's not like that at all." She looked up at him with pained eyes, and repeated her last few words, only this time it was soft and hurt. "It's Bill and Fleur that are expecting, not me."
All the hurt and outrage drained out of Harry in the span of one sentence, and once he again he felt incredibly clumsy. "I'm sorry, Ginny—you must think me the world's biggest git—"
"I don't," she said quietly. Rising, she put her arms around his neck and looked so deep into his eyes, he felt she was looking past them and straight into his mind. "Harry," she asked, "are you seeing anyone?"
His pulse quickened as he understood. "No," he said.
She gave him the world's most delicious kiss on the cheek, which lingered even after her lips had lifted. Drawing close—so wonderfully close, as he could feel her heartbeat against his chest, she whispered in his ear, "Happy twenty-fifth birthday, Harry James Potter."
He kissed her full on the mouth as she melted in his arms, holding nothing back, because he'd been saving it up inside him for seven years. All the waiting seemed worth it now, in this moment, which he hoped would be the first of a thousand more to come.