A/N: Hey crowd! I wrote this one for the Hinny Ficfest on Tumblr (answers prompt #27: "Harry and Ginny see how long it takes for Molly to realise they are dating after the war") but I decided to post it here as well, because tumblr is only for ficlets (at least for me) and the word count on this one just got out of control. Thanks to efikeff for suggesting the prompt.
Title is from a song by Passenger called 'Holes': Keeping the wolf from the door? She said: 'The wolf's just a puppy and the door's double locked, so what'd you gotta worry me for?'
As always, reviews are very much appreciated :)
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the wolf's just a puppy (and the door's double-locked)
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It's a necklace that does it. Gold, discreet; thin, tiny links around her neck - she's always fancied gold more than she does silver, has always liked the way it reflected the sun through the shop windows in Diagon Alley, the way she imagines it would contrast against her skin. Her parents never had much money for anything, of course, let alone jewellery.
There are two pieces that she owns prior, to her seventeenth birthday. The first one is a tiny bracelet. It doesn't fit her wrist, anymore, but she keeps it in the drawer of her bedside table regardless, like a reminder more than an ornament, something that her mother must have tenderly wrapped around her short, chubby limbs once upon a time when they left St Mungo's in '81. It has a little plaque attached to it: soft, cursive engraving (ginevra w., it reads).
Sometimes, Ginny considers enlarging it. The name 'Ginevra,' though,hasnever truly been hers. She would have to change the script, you see, and every time she thinks about it, it feels a bit like trying to erase a memory from someone else's brain. Ginny, herself, doesn't remember that time in her life, the time when her mother picked the name Ginevra, and somehow, that makes the bracelet Molly's, rather than hers. It's like stuck in a flickering moment in time, back when Ginnywasn't Ginny, and when her world was about to celebrate the end of a war.
In her own early memories, they were stumbling into another one, already.
The second piece is a ring. A war ring, of sorts. It was carved out of whatever Hogwarts had left to offer, that day, when Luna whispered spells that transfigured wood into metal with a precision that rivalled that of McGonagall. The both of them sat on the floor, in the room of requirement, a cautious ear kept to the ground, watching out for sounds of quick footsteps or pained screams, quiet like hope in a windowless room. 'I would like to be seventeen,' Luna said - that slightly dreamy tone of hers, always. Sometimes, all they wanted, back then, was for a moment of peace that never came, for the scared, second-year boy that sat in the corner of the room with his arms wrapped around his knees, to finally stop crying.
'Here, it's for you,' Luna smiled, dropping the ring into Ginny's palm, a piece of gravel charmed to be mounted like a gemstone. It resembled the face of a horse. 'It's after your Patronus.'
Ginny nodded, that night, tried to force a smile over her features, something that meant: thank you. She slipped the ring down the fourth finger of her left hand and thought of her Patronus. Thought of Harry, too.
Later, her brother died. Later still, they won the war. It is a fact, from what she's told, so she's not sure why the wizarding world spends so much time and energy, that year, trying to make itself believe it. There are the celebrations, and the memorials being built, the cracks in the castle walls that they fill with mortar, the wave of their wands in the air. It is a fact because the Prophet says so, because they put Harry's picture on the front page on the 3rd of May and tell everyone that Tom is dead.
They don't call him Tom, of course.
Sometimes, Ginny wonders how her parents must have felt, back when the chain still fit around her wrist. She wonders if, when Lily and James died, her mother ever truly felt victorious with her own brothers lying buried deep into the cold earth of a graveyard.
In 1998, when Ginny turns seventeen, the celebrations are a rather loud affair. She lets it happen; it makes her parents happy. Mum yells at the boys as they try to put up the tent in the garden and the cake is enormous, full of all different kinds of chocolates like a tray of Easter eggs. George lets out fireworks that roar loud and powerful at the end of the night.
Nature just hates a vacuum.
A few days before the party, Harry asks: 'What do you want for your birthday?' It is still July, back then, and this is the kind of relationship that they have, now, something that is sometimes fearless and sometimes blatantly transparent. They've snuck out of the house, past the wards and the enchantments meant to keep them safe (to keep himsafe) and walked down the streets of the village in the late evening sun. An Auror in plain clothes is following them, she can tell, and Harry's hand is shoved deep into the pocket of his jacket, where she knows he keeps his wand. Their arms brush as their feet graze the cobblestones of the streets – it is what they get these days, for carrying on with life: a trompe-l'oeil of normalcy.
He never had the opportunity to read that book that Ron gave him about charming witches. When he tells her about it, they laugh. She shrugs at him and points out that his favourite way of garnering information has always been to openly and bluntly ask for it, anyway, until he wears everyone out and gets what he wants. Sometimes, people find that annoying, arrogant or aggressive, but she finds it reassuring. Spent an entire year of her life under the Carrows trying to hide in plain sight, and Harry's somewhat chronic inability to conceal what he thinks is what makes it easier for her to breathe, whenever his arms wrap around her at night. If he wants to know something, he'll ask her. 'Gin, what happened last year?' he'll say, or 'Gin, do you think it's my fault if Fred died?' At night, she knows that she can just close her eyes and let herself trust him.
Many times, in the years that follow, she hears people suggest that he could have been sorted into Slytherin. To her, it ought to have been Ravenclaw. Sure, Harry's not as clever as Hermione but his thirst for knowledge, facts (truth) is unrivalled. All he's ever wanted, since the day she met him, was to know: what she thinks, all of it, everything, the questions that don't reallyhave answers. Why me, why us, why this.
Personally, she doesn't think she minds it much, anymore. Not knowing.
So: 'What do you want for your birthday?' he asks rather bluntly and she laughs, bumps her shoulder against his. They can't kiss, not here. Not with the world and the Auror watching. Her parents don't know – no one really does. It's not that she wants to keep it a secret - not forever - but this thing they have, it's like hot glass, about to be blown. Fragile, shapeless, delicate. For now, she's afraid that the noise of the world around them might shatter it.
'My Apparition licence,' she laughs in response, her glance quick, finding the escort behind them. 'To get the fuck out of here.'
That year, her mother's present is a dress: green with golden seams. 'I didn't think you'd want a watch, not like the boys,' she says. So, under the table, George slips Fred's in her hand when no one is looking. 'He'd want you to have it,' he whispers - that and nothing else.
Ginny takes it.
She can't breathe.
Her Apparition licence isn't something that Harry can do anything about (or else, he would probably have granted himself one, first, seeing as the Ministry never did) so he gets her two, separate gifts instead. First, a public-facing one, a utilitarian one. There is a box on the dinner table labelled with her name scribbled in his messy, tiny scroll. Inside, she finds broom wax and shiny, new footrests compatible with her Cleensweep. 'Ah, thanks,' she grins. 'I needed this.' It's not a lie; they'd talked about it, about her going pro in a couple of years, and her voice is warm and genuine when she addresses him. She likes the present, will actually use it, not like Percy's ridiculous Twenty Things to Think about when Choosing your Post-Hogwarts Path guide that she only mildly tolerated because, well, Percy. Later, though: 'Close your eyes,' Harry says in her ear. He sits behind her on her bed; she feels the light weight of a golden chain against her neck - she breathes again.
When her eyes open, there's a pendant and a deep-red stone over her chest, about half a centimetre in diameter. It rests against her skin, flat at the back, set in gold. 'It's garnet,' he provides when she turns to look at him.
Ginny smiles. Almost laughs. 'It's too much,' she says, but not like I can't, more like: it's beautiful, and, you're crazy.
There's something a bit smug and playful in his look. He winks at her, kisses her cheek. 'Don't worry,' he smiles. 'I didn't pay for it.'
She laughs at that, raises a curious eyebrow at his turn of phrase. 'That why you broke into Gringotts, is it?' she teases. He bursts out a laugh, shakes his head. Kisses the nape of her neck, just over the chain.
'Nah, I found it,' he shrugs. She's curious but knows she probably won't get a straight answer out of him, not now (he is honest but sometimes, he takes his time) so she doesn't push. Leans into his chest instead, her head against his heart. He adds: 'Just wanted you to have it.'
There are no diamonds between them, just a chain and a stone. No rings, no nothing (not yet, anyway). Not now. Sometimes, life still feels like a thin layer of ice.
Sometimes, it is like concrete under their feet.
That summer (and even in the months that follow) Harry is nervous about her parents finding out about them. Ginny isn't (not really) but on a purely hypothetical level, she does wonder how long it will take for her mother to figure things out. Catch on to what's been happening right under her nose, so to speak. She probably won't, though. They're not ready for a fuss, the both of them, so Ginny won't let it happen.
'I give it two months,' Harry says, one night - they sit in the sun, out in the orchard at The Burrow. For cover, Ron and Hermione are supposed to be with them. Conveniently, they keep disappearing, these two. Like a tacit understanding that Ron mildly tolerates because of the undeniable advantages he gets out of the arrangement. Under Ginny's shirt, Harry's hand is warm. 'Unless your mum is a legilimens. In which case, I'm already fucked.'
Ginny bursts out a laugh in response, a quick peck dropped to the side of his mouth. 'Trust me, she's not. I know Mum. She'll know when I want her to know.'
Against her chin, Ginny feels his thumb pulling her face back to his, eyes directly set on hers. Slowly, his finger moves up, lightly parting her lips. 'Yeah?' he asks. 'Wanna bet?'
Her tongue just about brushes the tip of his finger. She sees him inhale and hums. 'Maybe? What are we betting?'
His arm drops to the side, mouth now millimetres from hers. There is a slight blush to his cheeks. She knows that he is shier with these things than he lets on. 'I can think of a number of things.'
She smiles, kisses him. I'm sure you can, she thinks.
(He loses the bet. Obviously.)
That autumn, Ginny goes back to school. That is an odd thing that happens. Most days, she's not sure what to make of it. Sometimes, she picks up her bag from the floor in the Great Hall and underneath, she finds blood. She knows it isn't there (it's in her head) but it feels real, nonetheless. Thick and slippery between her fingers.
She thinks of Fred.
Harry's in London. He belongs there, she can tell, has found a home, a big city that is it, for him. There, he can be everyone and no one, and people don't look at him twice when he crosses the street. He goes to the pub, has pints with his mates, attends Muggle gigs and settles into being eighteen and alive. He comes up to Hogsmeade to see her, that one time, and they have sex for the first time. She initiates it, hadn't really planned for it to happen but then his hand is on her bum and they're snogging at the back of the Hogshead and she thinks: why not? Why not book a room, why not do something just because they're young, just because they're alive, just because they can? It's probably, objectively not that great, but it's everything she wanted. He stares up at the ceiling afterwards like she's hung the moon up there in place of the chandelier and she kisses him, and he smiles against her lips - they're her favourite: his smiling kisses. They're a bit rare, still, thus a bit precious.
She doesn't want people to ask, most of the time, so she keeps the chain he gave her under her shirts and jumpers, that year. He's far from her more often than he is near so she also likes it (likes him, by extension) close to her skin. In her head, she protects him from the cold, from Quidditch trainings, from gossip, and through the tiny, gold links, her heart beats against his. They write. It is nothis preferred method of communication but he tries. Ginny shares a room with Hermione and when she lies in bed, writing back to him (long, winding letters where she shapes riveting adventures out of her now boring Hogwarts routine), her feet lifted up behind her and crossed at the ankles, her dorm-mate says: 'Say "hi" to Harry for me, will you?'
She's either the worst or the best thing that's ever happened to the world, Hermione.
Once, in the middle of a study session, Ginny runs her fingers over the collar of her t-shirt and there is a look on Harry's best friend's face, a 2-AM look of questions that need to be asked. Hermione sighs, leans back in her chair, toys with a mug of tea that's gone cold too long ago. 'It's garnet, isn't it?' she asks. 'The stone. Not ruby.'
Ginny's necklace is showing, she realises, and it's just the both of them left looking over class notes in the Common Room. Her fingers automatically run against the gold and Hermione's one of the only people who have actually seen the stone, this year – it's not an easy thing to hide in such a small bedroom. Ginny's gaze lifts to meet hers, jaw set and dark brown eyes. 'Yeah,' she says.
Hermione lets out a short sigh when she nods, knowing. 'January, then,' she observes. It isn't a question, so Ginny doesn't answer, just letting her quill rest at the edge of her middle finger, suspended. Silent, she watches as Hermione smiles, cold, and when her next words come out, there's a slightly ruthless edge to them, like if you hurt him I will kill you, and that's a fact, not a threat. 'It probably meant a lot to him, you know,' she adds and Ginny nods again, holds her gaze for a moment, before going back to her potions book.
'I know.'
Harry's chain remains a secret to everyone else until the summer of '99. The summer after the anniversary, after the tears and the remembrance ceremonies. Then, it becomes a thing, only because Ginny lets it. She stops watching her back, stops hiding it under her jumpers, because they're ready. Harry, herself, her parents – she wakes up one day and figures: it will be okay, if people know. One morning in July, Harry Floos over for breakfast and when he gets to The Burrow, 'Ginevra Molly Weasley,' her mother suddenly articulates as her eyes narrow over the kitchen table. 'What in Merlin's name is that?'
Molly is loud, that morning, pots and pans long forgotten on the stove, fingers already reaching around Ginny's neck. Her daughter pretends to shrug her off.
'Where on Earth did you get money for this?' Molly roars. 'This is -' her arms are crossed over her chest; Ginny just smiles. This is it, isn't it? 'This is gold, how did you-?'
That morning, in the soft, early light, instead of paying attention to her mother, Ginny's glance is focused on Harry's. Do you want me to lie? she silently asks him and he stands awkwardly in the doorway, like fear and courage are fighting each other at the pit of his stomach. She sees him sigh, look to his feet and suddenly, there is the ghost of a smile across his lips, a quiet nod, like Godric Gryffindor is finally awarded a reluctant win. Ginny doesn't think he would have won before, certainly not last summer, and it is a testament to how much they've grown that he does, now.
'It was given to me,' Ginny says, finally turning to face her mother. Molly frowns and looks, if possible, even more aggravated.
'And, who gave this to you, may I ask?'
Determinedly, Ginny's gaze drifts from her mother back to Harry. She sees him swallow heavily (but again, in a this-had-to-happen-eventually sort of way), and she says: 'Well, Harry, actually.'
Her mother's mouth opens, then. Closes. A few times. Molly's brain seems to scour her memory for details, facts that might explain this - for a moment (a rather, triumphant moment, as far as Ginny is concerned), they seem to have made her mother speechless.
Nature hates a vacuum, though, as has been previously established, so the next words that file out of Ginny's mouth are said on instinct, without too much thought, just to fill the silence between the three of them, unwarranted. 'It was his mother's,' she says.
And, after (after the yelling, and the speech, and the 'You could have told us!' - although, 'Oh, it was your mother's, Harry dear,' - and, after the stern look that Bill gives them which Ginny knows is fake), her mum bakes pie, that day. When her dad gets home from the Ministry, there is a moment of confusion, then an awkward explanation, and he pauses for a second or two before firmly shaking Harry's hand. By then, The Boy Who Lived has turned into a soft shade of embarrassed and nervous scarlet, and her father, rather solemnly, invites him over to the sitting room with a tumbler of Firewhiskey. George laughs (that is rare - it almost sounds like a memory) and, 'Ah, I bloody knew it!' he says ('Language, George!'). And, that summer, the day when Harry and she become a 'thing,' is the day when sprinkles of the old 'normal' start blending into the new. She misses Fred, that day more than ever, because this is a snippet of their lives that he'll never get to see, but maybe, they've started to feel a little less scared, recently. She and Harry wanted to see how long her mother would take to figure things out but she couldn't have found out, not before now. They weren't ready. None of them were.
Late that evening, Harry stands outside, look cast out to the garden - his trainers shuffle the grass under his feet. 'It wasn't that bad,' he admits. The both of them stand close but don't touch; he looks up and finds her gaze. 'I wasn't sure you knew.'
Ginny smiles. The tips of her fingers dance over the back of his hand until he relents, lets them wrap around his. 'How could I not?' she asks.
He shrugs. Sometimes, she forgets that he didn't grow up here. That he doesn't know that every kid in their world knows that his mother was born on the 30th of January and died on the 31st of October 1981, that in less than five years, they'll both be older than she could ever be.
This, right there, is the sad part, Ginny knows. One of the many sad parts, as a matter of fact. Because today, Ginny's mother found out about them, and she got to yell and to smile, and to give aggravated looks all at once, in a way that Lily never will. His mother, she left a birthstone and a gold necklace behind her, but she'll never get to hug her son again, never get to watch him, eighteen and shy, as he kisses a girl under the moonlight. And, because of that, that evening, Ginny grips at the chain that rests against her skin harder than she ever has before, like something missing that they'll never get back. Harry will never have the things she has (her father walking her down the aisle, her mother weeping on Bill's shoulder, sobbing, 'My little girl!') but Ginny, well, she'll never be anyone's daughter-in-law. That fact, that simple, tangible fact, makes her heart ache in a way that it never has before. Now that they can touch, she feels her left hand squeezing his fingers in the dark.
'I found it in their vault a few summers ago,' he explains, speaks again, apropos of everything and nothing, to fill the empty space between them. He's looking at the ground. 'I wasn't sure you'd want it,' he admits. 'If I told you it was hers.'
'Why?' she asks. 'Because she's gone?'
And, that seems odd, in her head. She wonders what he thought. Wonders if perhaps, it was a fear of bad luck. Or if, maybe, he thought she'd be scared, scared like people who fear the dead, forgetting that it is always the living who try to kill you. In the dark, next to her, Harry stares straight ahead. Watching the side of his face, she notices his Adam's apple bob in his throat. 'It's a lot, Gin.'
And, 'Yeah,' she thinks, says. Maybe, it is. Between them, she gives his hand a little squeeze again. And, in the end, the fact that she agrees does seem to surprise him, surprise him enough that their looks finally meet. 'I wear Fred's watch, you know?' she breathes. 'I chose you, Harry. I can handle this. Past and present, I can handle you. I'm a lot, too.'
He looks at her, then, and something grazes his mouth, something between a sigh and a smile. He looks straight into her eyes. 'I think I'm in love with you,' he says.
And, it's her turn, now, to feel her own look narrow, facing his. They've never talked about it - not really – because their relationship has always been something a bit special, like its own, safe, little bubble that they were afraid to burst. Yet, suddenly, it dawns on her and it's glaringly obvious: this – this – is what love is, but how could they have known? How do you know to put words on something that you've never felt before, like you're burning a candle and trying to describe its smell for the first time? Harry's rare smile is slightly nervous, watching her, and when Ginny looks at him, she finds that maybe, hers is, too. It's scary - this beautiful, fragile thing that they've both jumped head-first into after the armistice was called. They didn't think about it too much, after the war ended, but here they are, a year later, and the feelings that they've let grow have a name that they can't hold back, not anymore. It's grounding – love - like a frozen mountain lake or a cosy winter fire - peaceful and steady, until it runs wild and tries to kill you.
Well, dear big, scary world, she thinks. Try me. Try us. The whole lot of you against the whole lot of us. We're a fucking lot, too.
That night, Ginny nods at Harry and kisses him in the dark.
'You know what?' she says. 'I think I am, too.'
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A/N: thanks for reading, I really hope you enjoyed this! As always, feel free to leave a review. Also I promise I am working on Castles, it's just taking a tad longer than I thought.