The day her husband got promoted, he was around twenty-seven, married, still young, still with that youthful spring in his steps, with the restless energy of the stars, and on his way to be a father for the third time. That year, they had gained a daughter that he was instantly smitten with, though he often denied any special affection. It was no secret that the little girl had him wrapped around her finger. He was happier that year than Ginny had ever seen him – much to the delight of everyone around him, who were quite used to her often busy, tired-looking, mild-tempered, and reserved husband of hers.
But slowly, she saw the shift that transpired . . . It was a gradual change, nothing major, but she could thank her brothers for preparing for this . . . A new phase which she often deemed the "macho mood," as her husband slowly adjusted to the role of officially being a leader. In just a short month, she watched her husband shift from the patient, polite, and good-humored young man to a complete surly and scowling beast whom she often found silently fuming or outright snapping at anyone who prodded him.
He reminded her of a very angry Pigmy Puff that she could never take seriously, much to the annoyance of her family members: it was no secret that she liked to prod him where it hurts, although never in delicate matters like his parents. But she lost no opportunity in taking the mickey out of his adorably irritable mood.
Other days when he stormed out of his study or sat silently fuming at the dinner table, she had half a mind to holding a bacon strip above his head and having it sizzle over the heat of anger that exuded from his head.
She suggested it to him one day while she was sifting through her mother's recipe book that she had borrowed earlier that day. And the answer that she got left her more than satisfied.
"Would you like it crispy or cooked?" she said flatly, leaning back against the kitchen bench, legs crossed at the ankles. "You decide the temperature. It's your head, after all."
"Don't bother," he said, disgruntled. She glanced up questionably at him. "It'll only end up being burnt, anyway."
Smirking, she reverted her eyes to the book. "Better than my cooking, then?" she said casually.
"I didn't say that," he added.
Her parents expressed their admiration for her, to be able to deal with him during his terrible tantrums that were not all unjustified. In the past, they had been a rare occurrence, but she had rarely been on the receiving end of his temper. She never deliberately provoked him. He had noticed, of course. And out of silent gratitude and respect, he always managed to calm down for her and never shouted at her, or belittled her, or cursed at her, but often stewed on his own until he calmed down to tell her what happened. In truth, he had never been a romanticist, nor had he had ever showered her with any terms of endearments, or vocal or physical displays of affection, but the lengths that he went through to control and respect himself around her was enough to make a puddle out of her heart.
But even in these precarious times with Harry Potter promoted as the Head of the Auror Department, it was pure tact or talent that she was never on the receiving end of slammed doors, overturned furniture, or even recently . . . A violent hex that had left an Auror dancing a jig all the way to St. Mungos.
He had admitted it reluctantly over dinner . . . And she had to spit out her pumpkin juice to avoid choking on her laughter.
In her opinion, it was something worth documenting and recording before she got too used to the shift. And to think . . . He had been more than speechless to find out that he had been promoted as Head Auror, and even more at the birth of their only and perhaps last daughter. There was still that soft youthfulness on his face, in spite of the stress and stony disposition he had gained these days. But he already started to feel like an old man lately.
Yes, Harry Potter had gained yet another title: the youngest person in history to be promoted as Head of the Auror Department. But what was left of his youth was quickly overshadowed by his less than youthful expressions.
"You might want to consider losing a few limps," she suggested one day while they finished mapping out a Quidditch Pitch to build outside, and they had settled for lunch in front of the fireplace. "That'd certainly clear things up a bit," she added lightly. "Scare off whoever hasn't been scared off yet."
It was her turn to be on the receiving end of his scowl.
"I'm about to," he said, levitating the stumbling James onto the chair after several failed attempts from the barely walking toddler. "I might consider starting with the head, but then again, I think I might have already lost that."
She burst out laughing.
"In that case, I'd like to keep mine." Smirking, she held out little Albus to him. He looked alarmed by the prospect of spending the next afternoon with a wailing toddler.
"Not you too," he grumbled out.
Nevertheless, he reluctantly complied.
There was nothing at all amiable nor pleasant about this new husband of hers, she had to admit. But it was admirable and impressive, nonetheless: she had never considered her husband as a rude or loud person, she often thought he had the patience of a saint and what tantrums he threw were purely a product of middle adolescence. So it was a flattering display, nonetheless, to see the often distant and almost aloof and shrewd stare shift, almost abruptly, by the seconds – to see his jaw tighten, his teeth gritted, voice precariously leveled, green eyes blazing, only to burst out unexpectedly in a passionate display of anger and authority . . . that left her with an ineffable amount of pride at the end.
It was the first time that she considered that perhaps he was becoming quite the formidable wizard . . . It was so easy to forget that when he was around.
"You know, I can't think of any woman who'd keep you this long and not explode," she told him during dinner, after he had finished ranting to her about his day and was looking quite surly over his parchment. "I suppose you're lucky to have found me, then," she added over her gravy.
He shot her a furtive glance above the parchment that he was reading before rolling it shut and thrusting it irritably on the table.
"I won't deny it," he confessed.
"Ginny," whined Teddy, looking helplessly over James's head. Ginny quickly set down to her spoon and turned to her eldest beside her, removing his gravy-filled hands from his drooling mouth and wandlessly drying his spit to hand him a spoon.
"I'm flattered," she muttered under her breath. Harry shot her a sympathetic look from across the table.
Perhaps a part of her was attracted to the fierce and often passionate displays that she was utterly immune to becoming victim to, and the measures that her often phlegmatic husband went through in order to discipline his temper around her. It was enlightening and perhaps touching that he never offered anything more than just a short and fetching scowl that made her want to pounce him before he sighed and went about his day.
The confirmation later came when three Aurors entered her house to inquire upon her husband, who was so nose-deep in parchments that he had not even greeted her parents, who had come by to visit earlier that day. The job of the Head Auror involved more planning and preparation and an analytical mind than physical work. That bothered him a bit. So when the Aurors came by later, she could sense their grim acknowledgement over what was about to happen . . .
Combined with a work-loaded, restless, and exhausted husband of hers, who had yet to get a good night's rest, she could just imagine how well that was going to go.
"Spare us the grief, Mrs. Potter," implored the youngest one. "Talk a bit of sense into him, perhaps."
"Sorry, boys," she said brightly, courteous enough to hold the door open for them. "I don't get involved in my husband's affairs."
One of them grunted something inaudible under his breath: "Definitely not my wife."
She stepped aside to let them in.
"Just down the hall," she jutted her thumb in the direction. "He's in his study. Good luck," she added, smirking. They threw disgruntled stares at her smug look but went on.
Ginny returned to the kitchen, keeping the door and her ear open and inwardly preparing herself for what was to happen.
"Good morning, Sir."
Ginny thought it was a bit strange that they referred to her husband so formally when majority of the Aurors were at least twice his age. Nevertheless, she sensed the fireworks about to begin from her husband's tight-lipped and less-than enthusiastic reply.
So she turned down the wireless in the kitchen and prepared herself for the show.
All the while, she made a great impression of trying to look busy and not at all eavesdropping on the steadily louder conversation, placing a noise-dimming charm on her two sons who were sitting on the floor next to each other, naming shapes through spit bubbles . . .
And sure enough, the flags were unfolded, the whistles resounded, and –
"If you ask me that," came her husband's loud and dulcet voice. "One more time, I'm going to make sure that the next time you come into this room, it's with this wand shoved deep up your a–"
"S-sir, please," cut in another voice.
Ginny snickered from her place in the kitchen. It was a pleasant day in the Potter household when her husband left the door to his study open.
"Please, Sir," said a deeper and leveled voice. "If you could just tell us, Sir – well, we can't just march into the house without permission –"
"What do you call this?" Something was slammed hard onto the desk. "I'm giving it to you!"
"But S-sir, we can't be certain this is the right address – or-or if there's anyone still living there, or –"
"I won't ask again –" her husband said louder.
Thoroughly entertained, she began a quiet whistling, silently counting down the seconds until the explosion.
"But, Sir," sputtered the youngest one. "we don't know where it is –"
"FIND IT, THEN."
With the last note, the Aurors were forcibly thrown out the doorway in a violent burst of wind – from a spell, no doubt – and the door slammed shut.
Ginny let out an impressed whistle. "That went well," she threw in helpfully.
They threw her half-hearted glares.
Needless to say, the Aurors left the house in spectacular shades of red and purple, sputtering indignantly under their breaths.
Hermione came by later, looking as flustered and frustrated as the Aurors, if not twice as much. Ginny had never seen her often prim and meticulous sister-in-law so rumpled and disheveled in her life. It was a fascinating display, nonetheless, her face flushed crimson, stepping out of the fireplace with such a stiff and infuriated air that would leave even McGonagall resentful.
Her chest swelled.
"Can you please," she said in a shaky but leveled tone, "have a word with your dear husband on how to maintain a proper tone around positions of authority and not to resort to biting the heads off of anyone's whose duty is to help him."
"Sorry, Hermione," she said brightly. "Until death do us part, and I don't think that day's come yet."
Hermione sputtered in indignance, blowing a strand of bushy hair out of her face. "Oh, I see, I see, defend him, why don't you – you two are just the same, aren't you – oh, well, I won't have him storming into my office again –"
"Just stay out of his way," suggested Ginny.
"Yes, yes, I'll do that," she said haughtily. "Goodness knows I'm not you. I don't have the slightest patience to deal with Harry in a position of leadership –"
"He is competent, though," she added helpfully, moving to lift her now crying daughter off the sofa and juggling her in her arms.
"Oh, your husband?" She turned to her with a knowing glare. Ginny shot her a cheeky smile over her shoulder. "Oh, well, he is my brother-in-law, after all, and I do love him," she wrung her hands and glared at Ginny's smug look.
"But," she shook her head and sighed. "I . . . I just can't deal with this," she admitted, rubbing her forehead. "especially after I've just returned to work – and of course you'd defend him," she shot out suddenly, realising that she had been led astray. Ginny snickered. "You're just as bad as he is. If I hadn't just complimented him, you'd have my head, wouldn't you?"
"No doubt," she said boldly.
Hermione looked incensed. "Oh, well, I admire the dedication," she bit out reluctantly. "But I've got my own husband sorted . . ."
"Send him a kiss for me, will you?" called Ginny. "I'm sure you've got many."
Hermione reddened and let out an indignant: "Really!"
"But seriously . . ." she stepped up, adjusting the infant on her shoulder. "Come by later, we'll have a chat and some tea. Bring the kids along. The boys will be gone –"
Hermione looked alarmed. "But – my paperwork –"
"Just bring it here, the boys have been asking about you." That did the trick. Hermione deflated at once and looked guilty and pleased at once.
"All right," she said weakly. "I'll come visit later – but only after Harry's left the house," she added in emphasis. "I'd like to have a peaceful evening, if you don't mind."
"Oi, watch it," threatened Ginny with a wag of her wand.
"You might want to consider buying new furniture for his office," Hermione added over her shoulder, turning to walk back to the fireplace. "But then again, he might break that, too."
"I'll defend his honour," vowed Ginny fiercely. "Get out of my house!"
Ron came by later dressed in vibrant orange robes that clashed horribly with his hair. But thankfully, he didn't share his wife's irritation with her husband but seemed to find the matter an absolute laugh, much to her relief . . .
Or so she thought . . .
Nevertheless, they clinked butterbeer glasses together, collided heads in the kitchen, and went over their days.
"I'm starting to think if maybe we should've kept the specky and scrawny git from the past."
Ginny grinned. "Who said I didn't like the specky and scrawny?"
Ron wrinkled his nose and wiped the cream off of his chin using the back of the sleeves.
"You could be a little more sanitary," she added with a distasteful look, handing him a handkerchief.
He snatched it from her hands. "You're starting to sound like my wife," he grumbled out, clumsily wiping his face. "Don't do that. I came here to get away. Harry's not the only one driving people up the wall lately. I'll have him to blame for the things I have to deal with at home."
"Have a word with him, then." Ron's eyes bulged out. "He's your best mate, isn't he?"
"You've lost it, haven't you?" he said, mortified. "I'm not about to add more coal to the flame. Be thankful it isn't me and Hermione anymore."
"Or you and me," she corrected.
"Sometimes a man needs a break, you know . . . I'm just glad I quit before Harry got promoted. All right, James?" He turned to greet the wobbling four-year-old. He bent down and handed the rest of his licorice wand to his godson, who squealed and rocked on his feet, mouthing "up," "up." "Bold little bugger, aren't you? Careful, Ginny, this one's going to end up a beggar like his mum."
She turned and scowled at him with her hand on her hips.
"Might need to start begging for a new husband." He snickered in the small tufts of black hair.
"If you must know," she said coolly. "I'm very much enjoying my new husband. He's much more macho these days."
He snapped his head up in disbelief. "Wait a moment, wait a moment," he strode towards her and lowered his voice. "are you trying to tell me, you've been encouraging this?"
She crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, I certainly haven't stopped it." A smirk came to her face. "Not that he'd listen to me, of course . . ." she added at his aghast look. "But – well, you know how he is."
"I take what I said in the past back," he put in seriously. "You do belong with each other. You're both bloody mental. And," he jutted a finger at her; Ginny rolled her eyes. "You've been making my life an absolute hell. I should just disown you and forget I ever had a fire-breathing dragon as a brother-in-law."
"Right, I think that's enough bad influence from you for a day," she promptly plucked her son from his arms and shoved her brother by the back and guided him out. "It's enough they've got Potter as their surname."
"Tell me about it," he wrinkled his nose at little James. "They look like him everyday," he observed with a grimace. "Let's hope he'd spare them the trouble of shouting. You'd think he'd have spared them the hair trouble by now, at least . . ." He stretched a black hair pointedly.
Ginny promptly set her son down and placed her hands on her hips. "Did you grow a new brain, Ron? Insulting both my sons and my husband in one go?"
He threw her a cheeky grin. "You've got to admit," he swung an arm around her shoulders. "I've got talent." She promptly stepped on his foot and ducked away.
"I'd like to see you stand up for yourself in face of their dad."
"Harry?" He flinched in surprise, barking out a laugh, "You think you're the only one who likes to get him all riled up. It doesn't take much to light a fire."
"True."
"Speaking of your wayward husband," he reached into his pocket to pull out a bright orange box and promptly thrust it at her. "Give this to him for me, will you? Tell him we've got a new supply coming up, and to use this in case his voice goes hoarse or he starts to grow grey hairs soon . . ."
"Oh, give him a rest, will you?" said Ginny, rolling her eyes. "He's still a bit young, he's only twenty-seven."
He threw her a distasteful and furtive glance. "Frankly, I'm surprised he hasn't already, with you in the house . . ."
"Get out!" she yelled.
Ron sniggered.
"Bye, mate," he added upon passing James and ruffling his hair affectionately. "Take care of your mum, all right? And don't end up a mental case like your dad."
Poking his back forward, she followed him out to the living room and moved towards the door to hold it open for him.
"Are you visiting Lily later?"
He stared blankly at her. "When's Harry getting home?" he asked quickly.
"He should be home soon," she told him after taking a glance at the clock. Then, her eyes narrowed, and she turned to face him with a raised brow. "Why?"
For some reason, he looked alarmed. "Oh well, I've, er," he grimaced, making a pointed effort not to look at her. "Got a pile of Snackboxes to sort through . . ." He grabbed hastily for his hat. "I reckon George might need a bit of help."
Ginny was not impervious to the excuse. She turned to face him fully. "Since when do you sort through the storage?" she said suspiciously. "You're always slacking off. And besides, isn't your niece more important?"
"O-of course she is," he said at once. "I'll, er," he looked hastily around the room for answers before his eyes lit up. "I'll send Hermione to give her my regards," he said brightly. "Right, see you tomorrow, bright and early, and send your prat of a husband through the door before then, all right? I'd like a peaceful morning."
"Coward!" she yelled after him. He threw a cheeky wink and slammed the door behind him.
Later that day, Hermione returned as promised, bringing her kids along as well as her paperwork. At first, she had been tentative about bringing the subject about her husband up again since she was, after all, a guest in his house. But slowly, the ill feelings returned, and she fell into a rant into Ginny's ear.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Ginny said calmly, taking a sip from her tea. Her and Hermione were sitting in front of the fireplace once again bringing back the topic of the morning while the kids were playing on the red rug on the floor. Hermione sat beside her on the sofa, their husbands gone hours ago. "He seems perfectly reasonable to me."
Hermione looked livid. "Well, that's because you wouldn't mind hexing people or-or shouting at them or being completely unreasonable –"
"I think you're stretching this too far. He's completely ordinary –"
"Hexing people who disagree is ordinary? Much less Ministry officials of higher authority –"
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Oh, give it a rest, will you?" Hermione scowled at her. "Look on the bright side, at least you have something to be thankful for. At least you know he won't be hexing you in the future."
"Not yet," corrected Hermione, frowning. From above her glass, she threw her a furtive look. "I suppose you like to see Harry all riled up, don't you, when you're never on the receiving end of his temper. If there's anything I'm grateful for is that I'm glad I never married someone like that."
Ginny smirked but made no reply.
It was only until later that she discovered . . . Perhaps he was not trying to be amiable for her. Perhaps he was completely impervious to the fact that he never seemed angry at her . . .
Perhaps the simple reason was . . . she knew him too well. She knew, perhaps, coming back from the long and aching work listening to miserable people tell miserable stories how burdensome it was for the soul . . .
It was late, and she had just made to turn in, prepared for another day of perhaps sleeping alone . . . Not that she complained: saving others had always been a priority for her husband, perhaps brought on mostly by a fear of a loss of life. She had long accepted that part of him, the demonstration of selflessness and nobility that came along with him. They were, after all, the reason she had chosen him and not any other easier-to-handle bloke.
But she was also curious. She had not seen him at all today; she wondered how true all the complaints about him were . . .
So she hoisted her middle son over her hip and went to his study, carefully prying open the door. And sure enough, she found her husband there. But he was not sitting at his desk like he usually was. Instead, he was on his feet, tense, alert, and pacing restlessly along the lengths of the room with black soot from the fireplace staining his brown robes and a bit of his face. He looked like he was waiting for something, an answer, occasionally glancing down at an obscure stone in his hand before shaking his head and returning to pacing.
Behind the frustrated exterior, she could see the worry, guilt, and reluctance at having to stay behind to overlook an operation rather than participate. He had always tried to spare them the trouble, but it was only natural, after all . . .
In her opinion, she couldn't imagine a position that would make her appreciate him more than the one he had now.
Shaking her head out of her thoughts, she stepped in the room. At the creak, his head quickly snapped up, his hand twisted in the pocket of his robes, clearly on the verge of pulling out his wand.
"Relax," she said, stepping further into the room and studying him attentively. "You're going a bit mad in here, aren't you?"
He glanced down at the stone again. There was a tracking charm placed on it, she knew, and glowed green when the person carrying it was deceased. "I think they might have ran into some trouble," he admitted.
"They'll be fine," she assured at once. He gave a weak smile. "But Al won't. He wanted to see you," she added. "He's been asking about you."
He snapped his head to look up like he had forgotten that someone else was here. At once, she watched the agitation fall from his face to be replaced by guilt.
"Sorry." Sighing, he replaced the stone back in his pocket.
"I'll leave him in here, shall I?"
He threw her a furtive glance, looking on the verge of saying something before shaking his head and running a hand through his hair again.
"Right," he nodded and reached for the dozing boy, who happily snuggled into his father's chest. "I could use a bit of company."
"Just let me know if you plan on tagging them," she added resolutely. "I'll take him off your back."
He snapped his head up in surprise. From above little Al's messy hair, something quiet passed his eyes; and for a moment, she thought he would cross the room and kiss her. But then, he straightened, looking ineffably relieved and grateful.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
She winked at him and left the room.
Sure enough, he emerged from his study half an hour later, looking quite worn and worried but also grimly determined.
"I've got to go," he said resolutely, cornering her in the bedroom where she was sitting against the headboard and writing her report and handing her the dozing Albus. "I'm going after them, I don't know when I'll be back."
"Right." She did not say no, or 'be careful,' or 'don't do it' but instead settled with – "Stay safe."
His expression did not change, but something light in the air shifted a bit. Mindful of the squirming boy in her arms, he took her face and fervently expressed his gratitude, pouring whatever was left unsaid into the embrace and leaving her a bit woozy and pleasantly flushed at the end.
The next day, an article was published in the Daily Prophet over Head Auror Harry Potter's interjection, especially since the job was designed of the leader to stay behind and oversee the process, praising him for his timely interjection and commending him on quick wit and moral fiber for one among many successful cases and of having the brawn and daring to defy the rules yet again. In truth, she, too, was pleased and proud, bolstered by the article herself, happily bustling around the kitchen with a spring in her steps.
"Looks like you've got yourself a new title," she said, nodding and thrusting the article down on the table. He seemed reluctant to read it. "How many is that, exactly?"
"Too many to count," he admitted.
He had his head resting lazily on a folded arm on the table, glasses a bit askew, with only swollen green eyes peeking out from behind a green jumper. He had not slept at all since the night before and seemed reluctant to turn in. He had also shed his thick robes and cloak, so that he looked much younger, and more his age, in spite of the weary and haggard look that he had been sporting frequently lately.
But she rather thought . . . He looked more relaxed and laid-back that morning than she had ever seen him since he had gotten promoted.
She caught him dozing off occasionally at the table and pitied him a bit, but she did not scold him nor send him off, although she wanted to. He seemed keen on a bit of company. So she patted his arm and busied herself, leaving him silently and shrewdly watching the less-than-affectionate banter between the two brothers with eyes wide and alert behind his arm in spite of his clear exhaustion . . . And if it was any other day, she might have intervened and hushed them up a bit. But instead, she let them babble on, shouting trivialities, and even tear at each other's hair while she worked silently in the kitchen.
When she turned back to check up on him, he was fast asleep.
Later that day, she was still not satisfied by his less-than-restful kip at the dinner table. So she prepared a kettle of tea that she was sly enough not to warn about and went back to his study to check up on him. And what she found inside melted her instantly, and she knew she was done for.
She found him slumped forward on his desk, face buried in folded arms, and glasses tangled in messy hair. She carefully moved forward, wary of waking him, and plucked the Quill from his hand to set it down onto the table. Her eyes drifted towards the ink-filled parchment for a moment before she made a decision.
She bent down, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He started almost instantly, jolting slightly, fists curled in preparation to seize his wand –
"I might be the only one you haven't cursed yet," she said lightly, happily nuzzling against his neck. "Have a go, if you'd like."
He let out a sharp breath, setting the wand down and leaning back to run a hand through his hair.
"Not a chance," he said wearily. He threw her a sharp glance from over his shoulder. "Although I might consider it – after that entrance." She laughed. "Mind giving me a warning next time?"
Her lips curled in spite of herself.
"No." She turned and buried her nose in the mess of black locks. She could feel his silent laugh undulate across his shoulders.
"Looking for something, Ginny?"
"Maggots." He laughed. "But seriously," she said, pulling back to look at him. "Why not have a kip or something? Or take a day's break, I've got the kettle brewing."
"Tea does sound nice," he admitted reluctantly.
"Right," she patted his shoulder and turned towards the doorway. "Don't keep me waiting," she added over her shoulder.
"I won't," he called back.
Sure enough, he kept his word, as he often did. And perhaps a part of it was due to guilty conscious that had mainly been instigated by her. But at least he had gotten a bit of a break. To her relief, he seemed entirely impervious to what had prompted her invitation.
The air was bitter cold lately, so even the kids were bundled up and huddled around the warmth of their parents. Little James was curled up on the floor in front of the fireplace, a fat comforter tucked tightly around him, his little face pressed into the pillow while Al sat on her lap, curled up against her chest and nibbling on a rubber Snitch. The infant was also curled up on her rocker beside the sofa, tucked with fat comforters applied with warming charms around her. Her husband sat beside her on his signature armchair, slumped in exhaustion, and occasionally nodding off. For some reason, he was not letting himself sleep, jerking himself awake every so often.
"Well, now that the case's over," she said, handing him his tea before plonking down onto the sofa in front of the fireplace. "Mind filling me in, then?"
He glanced at her with the same tiredness and reluctance that he always did. But she silently reached for his hand on the armrest, smiling encouragingly. Straightening a bit, he took in a deep breath and let his eyes drift to the fireplace; and for a wild moment, she thought he might refuse . . .
But then he tightened his hand and told her, told her everything, not leaving a single detail out. When he was finished, he looked worn to the bones but relieved to have talked about the sensitive matter.
By that time, he was also finished with his teacup and was looking quite drowsy. He sat up, blinking profusely, setting his teacup down on the rug and rubbing the heels of his palm against his eyes, knocking his glasses askew.
With a bit of an exasperated and smug smile, she untangled their hands and reached up to smooth back his hair.
"You're a mess, love," she murmured.
Something about her tone triggered something. He suddenly stiffened, his hands dropping abruptly, before he reached down to snatch the teacup from the floor, surveying it with a bit of disbelief before he snapped his head up. Needless to say, Ginny found herself on the receiving end of a bright green glare.
"You spiked my drink," he accused.
She was not surprised at his deduction. Her hand instinctively tugged at his own, pulling gently, until he stood up and moved to sit beside her. Once he was settled, she gathered him close and reached up to smooth back his hair from his face.
"I'd say you deserved it," she said coolly, not at all sorry for 'slipping' Dreamless Potion into his drink.
He slumped with a sigh against her shoulder. "It's the best idea you've ever come up with," he admitted a bit grudgingly. Her heart soared at the confession.
"I'll remember that," she vowed, plucking his glasses off his face and setting them aside.
He said nothing, but she imagined that he was smiling. Her ministrations were slowly easing the tension around his shoulders. His weight started to feel heavy, and she could feel the exhaustion seeping out of him. But he was not letting himself doze off just yet.
He took in a deep breath, sinking further into her shoulder while she threaded his hair. He bent his head, ducking low, his locks tickling her chin, lazily tickling a finger into Al's cheek and drawing a light giggle from the boy that was leaning against her chest.
Instantly, she took out her wand and widened the sofa and dragged them both down to a lying position. And so drowsy by the potion, he quickly complied, happily coiling an arm around her waist and nuzzling against her neck, mindful not to suffocate the boy that was snuggling against her chest. Within a few seconds, he was done for.
It was a long moment before she joined them as well . . . after she finished wondering where her quick-tempered and surly-looking husband had gone.
The next day saw a fiery spring in his steps; and for the first time in months, she could feel the restless energy and joy radiating from him – and the rush and alertness of a Seeker, a leader, and he seemed to fill the room with breath, and rush, and life again, and eager to make a change, and much more tolerant to help others. Even the Aurors seemed baffled by this change, although they were wise enough not to comment about it. He seemed to have reverted back to the alert, patient, and polite self that he was from before . . . although it was no secret that that self was short-lived . . . At least until he found something else that annoyed him.
"All that for a good night's rest," she mused, laughing to herself. "Who knew?" It had been a running joke perhaps that it was she who could solve the issue with her less-than-tolerant husband. But she had been baffled herself by the almost triviality of the matter.
Shrugging, and feeling every bit as wild and happy as her husband, who was holed up in his study again and expending all that reckless energy in a job that permitted such behavior, she did what was wise: she went to where her two boys were sitting at the table in the kitchen and caught her wayward eldest from behind, snuggling against his little neck.
"Let's give Daddy a break, shall we?" she whispered in their ears. They roared in approval.
Later that day, she took her boys out in the yard, hoisting the little one on her hip, and tugging the other by the hand, leaving her husband alone in his study and her daughter asleep upstairs. Though they were on separate floors, with her husband downstairs, she trusted him to tend to the infant. She trusted his instinct. Even when she knew that he was immensely distracted, he was often the first to bolt to his feet at the slightest sound of danger, an instinct heightened significantly over the years by his job.
So she took the small black-haired boys to the small lake near the cottage, her eldest James skipping sloppily on his toes, tugging sharply on her arm, nearly toppling her over, that she shot him a warning glare.
"Oi, careful there, James," she warned. "you're going to hurt your brother." Little Al was crouched low over her shoulder, green eyes wide, staring owlishly at his eldest brother, from behind the thumb that he had latched onto his mouth.
It was a habit that they had been trying to shake him out of for months. Ginny had half of a mind to fill his thumb with pepper . . .
But then the large and watery green eyes would turn towards her, and she never quite kept her word.
Mindful of the smaller ones, she flung herself beside the tree in front of the lake, a parchment and a Quill zooming out of the satchel at her shoulder, and adjusted little Al on her lap, letting James babble on and skip about her, keeping a close eye on him as she turned to start her report.
Al watched his brother with almost a quiet fascination, looking so much like her husband that her Quill paused in the air, and she stared at him, a part of her feeling a twinge of guilt for feeling so much for one of her kids. Even at a mere two years, little Al was a spitting image of his father and even received many of his traits as well, and more prominently, the only one to inherit his eyes. Combined with his quiet nature, it was no secret that she fell so terribly fond of him. He did not cry often and did a hefty amount of staring, be it a silent longing for something, or with wonder and curiousity for something . . . And it was only after Al had been born did she notice how much her husband stared as well – intently and quietly, and how quickly like his son he got distracted.
A shriek resounded in the distance. She looked up just in time for the boy to perform a dizzying spin and caught him just before he fell onto his backside.
"Careful, James," she laughed. "Save the broken bones for the brooms."
Much to her horror, however, his eyes began to glisten.
"Oh, no," she said ruefully. She cursed to herself.
"Mummy," he whined, bursting into tears.
She groaned. "Oh, someone save me."
"I'll take him off your back," said a new voice. She jolted up, reaching for her wand on instinct . . .
Speak of the devil, there he was, clear as water, strolling towards her with her daughter slung over his shoulder, looking worse for wear, black hair more tousled than usual, glasses askew, a bit rumpled in a dark blue jumper and black jeans but incorrigibly fetching nonetheless . . .
Her saviour. And she resisted the urge to snicker.
"Hi." He greeted with a tired smile. She beamed back.
"Hi." She moved over to let him sit next to the tree. He muttered a small thanks and took the place beside her.
"I won't stay long," he said, adjusting Lily higher on his shoulder. "Lily's just about finished tearing my ears open. I reckon I needed some air. Sit down, James," he added at the bouncing boy.
The boy complied at once. Ginny wrinkled her nose in resentment. One word, really, that was all it took, while she often begged to a wall . . .
"How did you do that?" she asked at once. "He never listens to me."
He shrugged. "He's used to being scolded from you, I s'pose."
Is that right? Her brow shot up.
"Right," she glanced furtively at him upon recovery. "Sounds like someone's not doing his job," she said casually. "Or perhaps reserving all the discipline for the Aurors."
"They deserve it," he said darkly.
"I'm not about to get involved," she said firmly. "What you do is your business . . . But seriously, I'm about to start greying before you do. Share a bit of it, why don't you? I'll lend you a wand." He laughed. "Or a Bludger. Take your pick."
He gave a small cough into his hand that sounded like a snicker. "I'm not about to ram a Bludger into my kids for discipline. They've got you for that."
She scowled.
"I think I've found a new headline," she said suddenly. "New Head Auror Harry Potter – soft on kids. Is that what it is?" Harry's neck coloured. "You've got the brawn to challenge men twice your size, but you haven't the heart to discipline your own kids."
"The oldest one's barely four years old," he argued. "He won't have a clue over what it's like to be disciplined."
He did have a point. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of surrender.
Shaking her head, she glanced up to check on said four-year old. She noticed her son was looking a bit woozy. His head nodded precariously forward, his nose nearly inches to the ground. She shot an amused and furtive glance at him before she set down the Quills and parchment and reached for him.
"Come here, you." She tugged him under the armpits and guided him to the place between her and his father. She felt Harry's stare, and when she gathered her eldest under her arm, she looked up at him, catching the same curious, fascinated, and quiet stare that Al had sported earlier and felt a warm drench of air fill her lungs.
What she would give to stop time . . . if only to prolong this moment . . .
"I've got a few armfuls, haven't I?" she laughed and leant back against the bark, staring out into the lake. "I suppose that's a bit expected, though, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
Smirking, she turned back to him. "I don't think I've met a single person today that hasn't complained a bit about you."
He looked up at her. Something changed in his expression, and through the fatigue and hidden grief and exhaustion, a small smile dawned his face.
"I have," he said quietly.
Irresistibly, a faint pink came to her cheeks. It was testament to their marriage perhaps that he still managed to make her blush.
"Well," she tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. "It's a rite of passage, isn't it, with all the time I've spent around Potters, I think I've gotten used to it by now."
"You should write a report about it," he put in suddenly, carefully adjusting himself to free a leg from under him. James shifted slightly but eventually gave a small sigh against his mother and slept on.
"About what?"
He smiled. "On how it feels like to be a Potter."
He wasn't looking at her but looking out over her shoulder towards the lake, the specks of gold and green in his eyes more prominent than ever among the green grass behind him. Her eyes then drifted to his shoulder to where the little girl slept soundly, tucked about her father's shoulder, and in all sense secured, and down to the light weights of the two black-haired boys leaning against her, her thumbs absently smoothing back their messy hairs, and at once felt a burning sensation in her throat.
Blinking back the moisture, she leant her head back against the tree and accompanied him into looking out across the lake where purple rays of light had just started to appear.
"You know," she said softly, snapping him out of his thoughts. He turned to look at her. "I think I was prepared to be a Potter long before I married you."
"You fit the temperament," he added helpfully.
"That sounds like something Hermione would say," she said absently. When he offered no reply, she snapped her head back to look at him. "Is it?"
She met his eyes, and they laughed. Needless to say, neither of them finished their work that evening.
A/N: To clarify: no, I do NOT consider Cursed Child to be canon. I think it was a very disrespectful and almost appalling depictions of these characters. I don't think Al grows up to be an edgy teenager that resents his father, especially not after that Epilogue. I think the two grow to be really close based on how he trusted him with the confession. No, I don't think Hermione's that powerful to be Minister of Magic. And I don't think that Harry's that incompetent to leave a Time-Turner lying around even though it was clearly stated that they were all destroyed, and especially not neglect his son or tell him, I wish you'd never been born, when in the Mirror of Erised, his main heart's desire was family. I get it, he might be a bit clueless when it comes to basic things like comforting or outright affection, but that's just part of his character. It's what makes him unique and human, not outright cruel or stern or stringent. I think he would have been a competent leader and an understanding father.