Ginny Weasley's Private Pain
by Rita Skeeter
It has come to my attention, writes Rita Skeeter, special correspondent for Witch Weekly, that after a relationship that has lasted almost a decade, Harry Potter has still not proposed matrimony to the poor girl who has waited for him for years. Close friend to the couple, Pansy Parkinson, reports that, "Harry will never propose to her, and even if he did Ginny would never accept now. They are too happy shacking up in that horrible hidden house of his."
Indeed! This correspondent can't even divine the location of the house he inherited from his Godfather, famed (but eventually cleared of the charges, posthumously) murderer Sirius Black, which has long been rumored to have been placed under a Fidelius Charm to maintain utmost secrecy by long deceased and controversial Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.
My question is this: with the War being long over and Black having been murdered by his cousin in the Department of Mysteries, why not lift the charm and live life without that level of secrecy?
What do you have to hide, Harry Potter, other than the fact that you won't make an honest woman out of poor -
- Ginny, I can't believe you are reading that trash. Put it down!" Hermione said, trying to snatch the magazine from my hands.
I frowned and shook my head, continuing the read the article through tol the very last word before I gave it to her.
"I can't help it Hermione. It seems like I know so little about myself, and there is much to learn from 'close friends of mine' like Pansy," I said, not covering the ice in my voice as I poured myself a fresh cup of tea.
We'd met for tea at the Tea Room in St. Mungo's, as we tried to do daily, or at least as often as our schedule would permit. Sometimes it was three teas, sometimes five, and on bad weeks one – but we always did manage that one so that we could catch up and have time just between ourselves.
"Pansy is a total cunt," Hermione said flippantly as she opened the gossip rag and read the story herself.
I blushed, but just nodded in agreement as I took a cucumber and dill sandwich from the tray and nibbled it as I watched her eyebrows work, sometimes in amusement and sometimes in worry, as she read the article from start to finish.
"What do you think?" I asked, biting my lower lip.
"Well, I think she has a source on the inside of your group of friends," Hermione sighed. "No one outside of the order knew about the Fidelis Charm. The Death Eaters guessed when we occupied the home, especially after the fiasco at the Ministry when we got the locket, and there was no way they could have known that Dumbledore was involved with the Fidelius Charm, even if she got it wrong that he was the one who placed it. At least she doesn't know it's unplottable …" She tapped her teeth with her fork, very deep in thought. "Do you want me to see if I can stop her with an injunction? It may not stick, but it could be worth a shot."
"What's the point?" I said, shaking my head. "She'll just go after you next if you do that. We can take the gossip. It's not the first time Harry has had to deal with her, and I think it's funny actually," I said, giving a laugh that sounded tinny and false even to my own ears.
Hermione flicked her eyes at me, unconvinced. "When is he going to ask you to marry him, Ginny?"
"Harry doesn't believe in marriage, and neither do I for that matter," I said, shrugging my trembling shoulders.
"Oh," Hermione said. "So all the doodling on your parchments in school about Mr. and Mrs. Harry Potter – that was all just a girls dream, was it?"
I looked away and blinked. Dammit. I'd forgotten that she had the memory of a well-tended to Pensieve.
"And even that talk last year when Luna got married to Neville, when you looked around the wedding dresses at Madam Malkin's like a hungry woman looking for bread – that was all because you don't believe in marriage?" she asked, peering at me from over her cup.
I grimaced and blinked again before I turned my eyes back to her. "They've taught you some very bad habits in Law Enforcement, you know."
Now she was the one who shrugged.
"That has nothing to do with it, Gin," she said softly, putting down her tea and taking a biscuit that looked like it was filled with raspberry jam. "I've known you since you were eleven years old. You've been my only female friend now for almost fourteen years now. I know you a lot better than you realize, and I bet you can say the same thing about me."
I grabbed a napkin from the table and dabbed my eyes as I recalled all of our late night talks pertaining to Harry, Ron, and even Viktor Krum. Of course, not all of the conversations had been about boys. After my first year … I don't know if I would have made it without sneaking into her year's dorm so that I could talk to her when the dreams and memories of Tom Riddle got especially bad.
"I love you, Hermione, you know that don't you?" I asked, trying to discreetly dab at my running nose.
"I know," she said, scooting her chair closer to mine and slipping an arm around my waist. "All that before, about not believing it – that's load of codswallop, isn't it?"
I nodded before saying, "I want to believe it, Hermione, because it's what he wants me to believe, but a few weeks ago I just -
- suddenly appeared in his laboratory, like he always did after a morning dalliance.
He hadn't lied to the whore; they did let him keep his own hours. Some days he worked from eight to five like a normal Ministry drone, and other days he appeared in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep, working for twenty hours plus before finally returning to his flat. His superiors didn't really care when he showed up or when he left, as long as he gave them the results they desired.
Staring into the cauldron bubbling moderately with lime green sludge, he tried to decide what ingredient would activate the moonstone, allowing it to bloom and give the eventual potion the dream changing properties that had been requested. He walked to his new wall of horrors, considering a cut from the hoof of a fetal pig, before glaring at the small, pickled, Blast Ended Skrewt he'd coaxed out of the Forbidden Forrest while collecting ingredients.
He found his answer in the precious, delicate hairs from a Sphinx. Just one, and it would help unwind the riddle of dreams for the user of the new potion.
Into the cauldron it went, and with twenty clockwise stirs he was satisfied with the results. Setting an Alarm charm for an hour, he sat down at his desk with his notes, updating his progress. That was an easy task done quickly, and after he littered the parchment with his spiky scrawl, he sat back in his chair, thinking about the morning.
It had been good, even if briefly, to feel alive in the arms of a woman just one more time. Every time he visited Knockturn Alley he told himself it would be the last time, and that in the future he needed to get familiar with his own hands and his imagination.
For a while it would be enough, until the nights were too lonely and the dreams made it unbearable for him to do anything other than float from place to place – just existing, not living.
Even after a few hours of sex and the cold embraces he paid so dearly for, he knew he still wasn't living. But it was worth it for the release and the ability just to pretend for a little while that someone desired him, had waited up for him for a midnight romp, or wanted an early morning fuck before work.
Severus caught just a whiff of … Jane's? … sickly sweet perfume on his coat and muttered a quick "Scourgify", ridding himself of the last remnants of her as quickly as he parted with the five galleons he left on the table. He let himself pity her, briefly, as he tugged at the too tightly wound cravat on his neck, wishing he could loosen it just a little.
But he could not and never would, not even at home if he could help it. He looked at the calendar on the wall and realized his check up at St. Charmaine's would be in two weeks. Arrangements would have to be made according to -
- the schedule with the Ministry office is all wrong. Hello? Earth to Ron?" Harry asked, looking at the red head bent over the desk that was usually occupied by his best friend.
But the aqua-blue eyes that looked up did not belong to Ronald Weasley, and the face was far too pleasing to be his best mate's mug. Harry swallowed noisily as he felt a burn in his chest that he hadn't felt since -
- Hogwarts's good old Alchemy textbook is probably what you need to study from to get that extra bit of knowledge that they want you to have."
I stared at Hermione, trying to figure out why on Earth I hadn't realized that myself. But she was completely right, of course, as always; Alchemy was indeed a huge part of advanced Potion making – especially with the Potions that we treated the damage from. Ingredients transmutated in a pinch, reestablishing their form as the solution aged, causing more harm than good in the end.
"You are a genius, of course," I said, finishing up my next to last swallow of tea before swishing it a few times and looking down into the cup.
"You don't still do that, do you?" Hermione scoffed, tipping her cup and drinking the rest in a defiant gulp.
I said nothing as I looked at the tea leaves, trying to discern any shapes that they made. I thought I saw a hair comb, a moon, and a mask. But none of that made sense – we were happy when all was said and done, weren't we? I followed Hermione's lead and drank the rest of my tea before we stood up to go back to our respective places of work.
"Tomorrow?" she asked.
"No, I'm off tomorrow – Harry and I are taking a mini-break, but just staying at home," I said, happy to have some good news.
"Shag him rotten," Hermione said, laughing as she saw a little blush rise to my cheeks.
"Next week, then," I said, taking a few breaths that I hoped would bring my face back to normal before I had to return to the ward to face my patients.
"Monday," she said, winking at me and giving me a hug. "And then you can tell me all about it over
tea?" she asked.
Harry nodded his head and took the fragrant cup. The warmth had spread from his chest down to lower places, and he was fighting very hard to stay under -
- control. He needed a control potion for this experiment, he realized wearily. And the only book he had on Potions this dark had been a Dark Arts tome from the fourteenth century, lost after the Battle of Hogwarts, which meant that he would have to face going out on public and getting the "oh look, it's him" looks from the customers of Diagon Alley. Flourish and Blotts carried that book, but only sold it if one was a connected to the Ministry or to Hogwarts. He sneered at his identification card that lay on his desk, watching his picture sneer back at him with equal venom. He hated using that stupid thing, but needs must, and he needed this book to finish his damn work.
"Later," Severus said to no one as he sipped on the tea that the kind little woman from the upper levels brought him every afternoon. He sighed happily as he realized she'd brought him his favorite raspberry jam biscuits, as well as a few of the crisp crackers she told him she made herself.
She was old enough to be his grandmother and reminded him of that frequently when she brought by the trolley with the little tray of goodies. Sadly, he realized that she may be the closest thing he had to a friend now, and he didn't even know her name. He sighed, and vowed to fix that tomorrow. Tucking a long black hair behind his ear, the one that always seemed to escape the queue of hair held with a black leather tie at the back of his head, he took a bite of the best damn -
- woman I ever met," Mr. Filch said, shivering under my warm hands.
"Just drink this, sir, and you'll feel better by tomorrow, I promise," I said.
I helped prop him up in the bed and tipped the vial to his lips, listening to him swallow every last drop from it.
"What did they give me this time?" he asked, exhausted as his frail body fell back against the pillows.
"We'll figure it out, but if it's the same as the last, that potion will fix it in a trice," I assured him as I stroked the hair out of his sweaty face.
"Best damn Weasley of the bunch, you are," he said, eyes getting heavy as he fell into a deep sleep.
I took his chart from the bedside and wrote my notes on my treatment and what should be given over the next twenty four hours to continue the course. He was snoring by the time I left the room. It was half-past five, and time for me to call it a day. I went to my office and grabbed my cloak, bracing myself for the icy cold November wind outside. It had sleeted yesterday, so I didn't even bother taking off my veil as I ran down the stairs and walked out to the Apparation point just before the front door.
"Where are you headed, dear?" the sweet woman who ran the tea shop upstairs asked as I passed her in my rush.
"Flourish and Blotts," I said, a little breathless just before I Apparated away.
