For the Calendar Challenge: 4: April—rabbits; "Yes, I'm short. Tell me something I don't know."
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The Nineteenth Year:
Chapter Four: Making History, One Rabbit At A Time
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"I became a journalist to come as close as possible to the heart of the world." –Henry R. Luce
"A little rudeness and disrespect can elevate a meaningless interaction to a battle of wills and add drama to an otherwise dull day." -Bill Watterson
"Do not follow where the path may lead. Go, instead, where there is no path and leave a trail. " -Ralph Waldo Emerson
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"Why is there a rabbit in my kitchen?" I asked, with an admirable degree of restraint. The rabbit looked back at me from the table, blinking innocently and gnawing a carrot.
James was my first suspect—he's such a practical joker. He's turning sixteen this August, and he still loves to cause trouble. Sometimes I really wish he were more mature.
Or it might have been Albus—it's only April, but he's already terrified of going to school this September, and fear can make kids do strange things.
I don't think it was Lily—she's my sweet girl, and she's much too princess-y to bring a rabbit into the house.
I ran down a rapid-fire mental list of my nieces and nephews by age: Victoire, Dominique, Fred, Molly, Louis, Roxane, Rose, Lucy, and Hugo—but concluded it was unlikely to be any of them. Except maybe Dominique—she's rather temperamental. In fact, in my opinion, she's a spoiled brat, but what can you expect from Fleur? It's surprising Vic and Louis have turned out so well.
Nevertheless, surely it had to be one of them. "KIDS!" I yelled. "GET DOWN HERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT!"
They came, grumbling. It's Easter holidays, so I have all three of mine, plus Rosie and Hugo and Vic and Fred and Roxy—everyone will be at the Burrow tomorrow, of course, for dinner and games, but today I've got them all to myself. My nieces and nephews tend to make our house their home whenever they please, so it's not surprising that I've got Vic, Fred, Roxy, Rosie and Hugo for the day.
Harry (of course) is at work. It's Saturday, for Godric's sake! I wish I could say they work him too hard, but he's the head of the department, and he does it all to himself. Sometimes he makes me so mad…I have to look out for the kids, of course, and they drive me batty sometimes, but it's not that—not really. I just wish I got a little more time to myself. I have a career too, you know.
Whatever.
Anyway, the kids came thundering down the stairs (probably woke that bitch Walburga Black's portrait again, but at least I can't hear her from down here; s'why the kitchen's my favorite room in this entire Godric-forsaken house). They grumbled and shouted and made hushing noises (Vic and Rosie), while the house shook on its foundations—if only it toppled over some day while we were all out, we could finally move—and they piled into the kitchen. I saw I'd been wrong in my numbers assessment—Dominique was there, too.
"Woah," commented Hugo. "A rabbit!" He's inherited my brother Ron's stunning command over stating the obvious.
"That's odd," said Roxy, with professional detachment.
"Cool!" said James. "I vote we name it the Death Gnawer." And he, Dominique, and Fred burst out laughing. I suppose that means the three of them have reached the Second War in History of Magic.
I frowned at James, trying to make him realize Death Eater jokes aren't funny, some of 'em are still around, not even in Azkaban, and back in the day they were murdering fiends—but he ignored me. He does that a lot lately. I hate it.
"What's a rabbit doing on the table?" asked Rosie sensibly. That's Rosie for you—she inherited her mother's brilliance.
Right on cue, the wall behind me moved—I knew because Lily shrieked, Dominique laughed, and Vic smiled indulgently—and arms snaked around my waist from behind. "Surprise!" breathed Teddy's voice in my ear. I didn't jump.
"Hello there, darling, glad you could make it back for the holidays," I said, twisting so we were face to face. Or as close as possible, anyhow—Teddy towers over me.
"Aunt Ginny!" he exclaimed happily, bending down to kiss me on each cheek. He exaggerated the movement for comedic effect (I heard the kids laughing behind us) and gave me a look. "You're really killing my back, you know. At this rate, I'll need a cane before I'm thirty."
I glared up at him. "Yes, I'm short," I snapped. "Tell me something I don't know."
"I brought you the rabbit," he confessed unblushingly. I turned around, breaking the embrace, frowning. I'd forgotten about that nuisance of a creature. "I thought it would be festive—fit the season, you know," Teddy continued.
I must not have looked happy, because Vic piped up in a wavering voice, "I'm sorry if you don't like her, Aunt Ginny—it was my idea. You know—Easter, rabbits…" she trailed off hopefully.
I frowned, then brightened. The perfect solution! We'd bring the rabbit over to the Burrow—no one would even notice in my childhood home's messy garden. "That was very thoughtful of you, Teddy and Vic," I said graciously. "Thank you."
Vic frowned a bit, but didn't say anything. Teddy grinned widely.
"Okay, kids," I said, taking a deep breath, "why don't you run along now, and take the rabbit with you—I need to work on dinner. Vic and Teddy, you two are in charge."
They filed out, Roxy scribbling busily on a spare bit of parchment, Rose whispering energetically to Al, and Vic holding Lily's hand. I saw Teddy's fingers touch the small of Vic's back, and she stiffened for a second and then relaxed into his touch. I smirked knowlingly.
Once they were all gone, along with the rabbit (I heard James, who was carrying it, loudly christen the creature "Our little Death Gnawer," but pretended not to), I was finally alone. In my kitchen.
I breathed a sigh of relief, and sank down into a chair, Summoning my favorite cookbook (One Minute Feasts—It's Magic!).
It's not that I don't love them all, because I do, but sometimes, having such a big family can be a pain. I seriously considered not having any more kids after James, which is why there's such a big gap between him and Al—but Harry really, really wanted another one, and eventually I gave in. Lily was actually an accident; after she was born, I went on the potion permanently. Take it every morning with my coffee. It's an expense, because I certainly don't have time to make it myself, and there aren't that many high-quality, capable potioneers out there—prices are high. But honestly, I think it's necessary.
I love my kids, and I'm not sorry I had Lily, even though I didn't plan it—but I just can't deal with more. I don't want to turn into my mother. It's like Luna says, when you're a kid, you want to be your parents. When you're a teen, you want to be the opposite of your parents. And, if you're really lucky, eventually you'll be mature enough to say, you know, there are some things about them I never want to emulate, but my folks were still right about a lot of stuff.
Turns out, that's what being an adult is all about: compromise. It took me a long time to see that.
Harry used to make dinner, back when I was with the Harpies—he still does all the cleaning (well—everything Kreacher doesn't do; I still can't get used to having a house-elf). I may not be the greatest cook in the world, but I really do enjoy it. It's like potions, only easier.
And, at the end of the day, food doesn't stick around for long (or at all) in this house—unlike words, which are pretty much around forever. I'm a writer.
I have diary-phobia and I don't write personal things much—I'm a journalist—but honestly, sometimes I never want to see another sentence about Quidditch again. I love the game, still—it's been years since I played with the Harpies, and since I only play sometimes when the kids need an extra Chaser at our Potter-Weasley family retreats. It was Percy's idea, and somehow we've kept going to 'em.
That's hardly the same, of course. I don't want to steal the game from the kids. They've almost got enough people to play properly (seven against seven) if Rosie, Roxy and Hugo can be cajoled into playing. For some reason they'd rather write or talk quietly instead of playing outside like normal kids. I think it kind of throws Ron, to be honest.
Anyway, I sat there, feeling at ease with myself and the world (except for a few niggling concerns about the rabbit) and flipped through the cookbook for a good recipe. Something that (as always) could feed upwards of ten people, some of them teenage boys, but that would still be at least passably interesting to the adult palate.
Also as usual, I hadn't been looking long when I was interrupted.
"Mom!" Lily shrieked, running in and skidding a little in her socks. "Dominique is mean!"
I know this already. Dominique's always been a bit of a problem child. Bill's totally blind to it, of course—she never says cutting things or steals Lily's toys just to be mean or James's notes in a vain attempt to match his grades when Bill's around. And, of course, she's Fleur's favorite child. Honestly, the way those two neglect Louis—! Vic's birthday means no one could ever ignore her, and she's the oldest Weasley cousin, not counting Teddy. But Louis just gets overlooked. It's horrid the way people ignore the youngest kid.
"I'm sorry, honey," I said soothingly. "Why don't you talk to Vic about it?"
Lily pouted, but she must've figured out I was busy, because she left eventually.
By the time Harry finally got home, I was keeping dinner warm and the kids were playing another round of Exploding Snap in the tapestry room. I figure, if the Blacks didn't care enough to put an Imperturbable Charm on it as well as a Permanent Sticking one, that's their problem.
Harry often brings work home with him—either in the literal, pages of parchment sense, or, sometimes, people (Kingsley, Gawain Robards, Ernie Macmillan once, Andromeda…or Ron and Hermione). Tonight he brought something better.
"Luna!" I exclaimed happily. I hadn't seen my best, strangest friend in ages. "How are you, sweetheart?" We embraced briefly, and she smiled beatifically at me.
"Marvelous. Rolf and I got rid of the Nargle infestation at home, and now everything's simply lovely! How are you?" she asked.
I shrugged. "All right. How're Lorcan and Lysander?"
Lorcan and Lysander are Luna's two sons—Lorcan's a year younger than Lily, and Lysander's only three. She and Rolf usually take them with on their long and unpredictable trips in search of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and the like, but sometimes they leave the boys with us. They're both adorable, and sometimes I could swear Lorcan is just as smart as Rosie! He really took to Calculus.
Luna said both her sons were fine (well, she said it longer), and the two of us had an excellent chat while she helped me serve dinner.
Harry and Teddy got into a really involved discussion about Teddy's future over pasta (poor Teddy—I could see him getting more and more nervous), and the kids kept the conflict to a minimum (though not the noise). It was only later, after Harry and I had sent Rosie, Roxy, Hugo, Fred, and Dominique to their respective homes and Teddy and Vic were having a heartfelt farewell in the front hall (right in front of that bitch's portrait—how they stand it—!), that the three of us settled down for a good chat.
Lily was supposed to be in bed, but I suspect she was pestering her older brothers—they're very patient, though, even James, so I wasn't worried.
"I really should go," Luna said at last. "The boys will be needing me, and I still have that article to finish."
"How's that going?" Harry asked, leaning back on the couch. "Nick Grant a reasonable editor?"
Luna shrugged. "I've had worse. He's quite interested in punctuality."
"As a concept?" I giggled, sipping my elf-made wine. "Must be frustrating."
"He reminds me a bit of Professor McGonagall," Luna was saying, and I think she went on, probably about stern people in positions of authority and whatnot, but I wasn't listening.
I'd just had the most fabulous idea.
I sat up straight, and exclaimed, "Luna! You've always told me how lonely it is writing when you're worried people won't believe your articles, and they'll never see what's right in front of them, right?"
She nodded, looking inquiringly at me.
"You know what we should do; it's obvious, really," I said excitedly. "I mean, we can't be the only ones, right? I can't believe I didn't think of this years ago!"
"What?" Harry asked, all at sea.
"A Writers' Group!" I explained. "We could call ourselves Witches for the Arcane Art of Sentence-Building, or The Quill is Mightier than the Wand, or Quill-tips Anonymous, or—"
"Let's be the Sugar Quills," suggested Luna dreamily. "They're awfully good, after all."
I laughed, because it's so Luna—and it's so right. The Sugar Quills—or maybe the Ice Cream Quills, or the Coffee Quills, or something else delightful and sweet. It's a great idea.
"Are you sure you're going to have time for this?" Harry asked skeptically. But I was in no mood to cavil at a few details.
"It's perfect, Luna!" I exclaimed, and the two of us talked it out—well, I talked, and she inserted an acquiescent comment or two—after a bit Harry got out some work. I guess I shouldn't be too annoyed that he isn't as interested as me—after all, he's not a writer.
Still, he might congratulate me on the idea. This is a social thing—a group for us to share thoughts and technique. It could develop into something major. It could not. Either way, I'm going to do it. I'm sure of that, now.
I need a new project.