A/N: Dean/Ginny Royalty!AU and forbidden love! Fluff and some bittersweet feelings, but hopeful. No warnings!
Dialogue Prompts: "Will you get on with it?" / "I wish..."
Title from Ivy, by Taylor Swift.
Midnight draws closer and closer. Ginny guides the way through the thick forest, a spear of light held aloft. It would be impossible to find the wishing well in the dark like this if not for the way the pure white snow turns gold under her gaze, leading the way.
"You're sure this is the way?" Dean asks.
His voice is soft and unobtrusive, as quiet as the forest that surrounds them. But Ginny bristles at the question anyway. It's not the first time he's doubted her - not even the first time today.
"Can you see the footsteps?" Ginny calls over her shoulder. "We're going the right way. I haven't steered you wrong yet."
Ginny has been his guide for years now. The more official term is personal knight, or shield, or trained protector. But Dean isn't quite as weak-willed as the other Prince's that Ginny's protected over the years. He can take care of himself. All she has to do is guide him where he needs to go, and escort him to boring meetings in the stuffy council room, and stand back to back with him on the battlefield.
Dean wraps his cloak tightly around himself. The royal colours are sage-green and white, much like the woods in winter, and Dean wears them well. But they don't do much against the cold, and the cloak is thin and wet at the hem, clumped with snow.
"We should play a game," Dean says. "Or I could draw you."
Ginny snorts. "You want to draw while you walk? You'll end up falling in the wishing well."
"At least we'll have found it."
Ginny sighs, and comes to a stop. She spins around, hiking up the spear of light to see his unamused, grouchy face in all its glory. No matter how handsome he is, no matter the fact that he's royalty and she very much isn't, Ginny has no qualms standing on her tip-toes to flick him on his cold, red nose.
"Ow," he says, with very little inflection.
"Stop complaining, or I'll wish for you to be very quiet for the rest of your life."
"You'd waste your Kingdom's wish on silencing its Crown Prince?" Dean's brows raise, and he shuffles closer, his boots shifting the snow under their feet with soft, faint crunches. "How careless, Miss Weasley."
Ginny rolls her eyes and grabs his hand with her spare one. The spear of light - and it is a spear, charmed to glow with flames at the sharpest point - throws their shadows into sharp relief on the icy ground. Two dark shapes, entwined at the wrist.
"You'd be useless without me," Ginny says. "Come on. We'll never make it before the moon's up at this point."
Ginny can feel the heat of his hands through his gloves, and it makes her shiver. She squeezes his fingers, leading them on, and Dean goes quietly, contently, almost smugly, even. And the way through the woods turns gold ahead of them.
There are still a few hours until midnight by the time they reach the clearing where the wishing well is. Wishes, it is told, are strongest when the moon is directly above. Ginny clears a space for them while Dean pulls out aged, curling maps and strange instruments, measuring the position of the moon in the sky.
"Midnight for sure," Dean says, sitting back on his haunches with a sigh. "I was hoping it might be sooner, but at least we have time to prepare."
Ginny stabs the spear into the snow, digging down into the soft earth beneath. The light blooms, filling the frosty clearing with light. The Wishing Well looks a little more intimidating without its shadowy coverings. The stones are cracked and crumbling, and the moss that skates over every rough, rounded edge is pure white too, to match the snow. A rotting wooden awning covers the well, and a rusted chain leads down into the dark, sawn off halfway.
"You have something to offer?" Ginny asks, turning her back on the well.
"It doesn't take coins, not like the children's well in town," Dean says. "I asked Flitwick, and he had a pretty good idea of what to do. We need to gather fresh ingredients, mix it into a potion, and pour it into the well at midnight."
"I guess wells are usually full of liquid, aren't they?" Ginny holds out a hand for the list of ingredients. "Give me that. I'll do the gathering, you do the lazing about and mixing."
"You're only offering because you get your clockwise and counter clockwise mixed up."
Ginny snatches the list away and stalks to the edge of the clearing, blushing. She wouldn't be a very good guide if she did get her lefts and rights mixed up, but truth or not, Dean's teasing stare would be enough to fluster anyone.
The potion calls for mushrooms, round and springy and just as green as Dean's cloak, and bundles of herbs that she recognises by diagram, and a touch of dew that she freshens with her magic before coaxing onto the end of her finger. She carries the teardrop back to Dean, who lets it drop into the bubbling pot over a makeshift stove. The campfire struggles to burn, especially in this cold, frozen place, but Dean makes do, piling sticks together and encouraging the embers to catch.
He looks good, bent over the potion like that. His cloak slips down his shoulders, baring the gold crest that he wears around his neck. Ginny's stomach sizzles with frustration and pain, and she turns away, stomping back to the edge of the clearing where it's safe.
She digs around under the plants, fishing out her knife to hack at the frostbitten leaves and harsh, prickly stems. Round, fat mushrooms finally reveal themselves, half-buried in the earth and snow. She grips her knife, angling the sharp, pearlescent blade towards their rubbery roots. The knife was a gift from Dean's father, a gesture of good will and gratitude for looking after his son. Ginny tried to return it. She didn't need a gift or money or rewards. All she wanted was to find a purpose, to feel useful and get stronger. And she wanted to look after Dean. It was never a chore.
It still isn't a chore, not even when she dumps the armful of mushrooms into his lap, and he stares up at her, baffled.
"You think I know how to slice mushrooms? Seamus spends most of our lessons casting fireballs and melting our desks."
"Was that a plea for help, Your Highness?" Ginny asks, cocking her head.
"I'll beg if you like," Dean replies smoothly. "We both already know how useless I am without you."
She sits down without further comment, red to the roots of her hair and determined not to say another word. But he draws her into conversation anyway, warm and playful and loving in a way she wishes she could be without, and the cut mushrooms under the steadily rising moon.
Midnight comes with all the grace of Seamus let loose on a barrel of ale. Ginny can feel the change in the air, the static touch to her skin amplified by the moonlight glaring down at them. The moon is poised above the trees, glowering the darkness into submission. Dean unstoppers the potion with steady hands while she waits on the opposite side of the well, armed with her spear just in case something bursts out of it. She wants to be by his side, but he has his own knife in the pocket of his cloak, and the wish requires space, distance, careful thought and purposeful dictation.
The little timer in his pocket, a mechanical hunk of metal and magical gears, chimes.
"Ready?" Dean asks.
Ginny rolls her eyes to hide her nerves. "Will you get on with it? You're taking longer than this winter has."
Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He leans over the wishing well and pours the potion in. There is no noise. It falls in a single fine stream, weaving its way down into the dark. The air shudders.
"I wish…"
Dean meets her eyes over the wishing well, and for a moment, her heart stops. There is something captivating about him in this moment, something that keeps her from looking away. She imagines the words falling from his mouth: I wish I could marry for love, I wish things were different, I wish I weren't a Prince. I wish she was enough for them, like she is for me.
It's like she can hear every argument he might have with the wishing well, and it hurts that she'll never have those things, never hear them in real life, spoken out loud. She squares her shoulders and refuses to blink, meeting Dean's eyes head-on. His gaze softens, and he quirks a wistful smile her way.
They both want that wish. But they both know what's at stake. They both know why they're here, and what has to happen next.
"I wish for this cursed winter to end," Dean murmurs.
Life pours back into the forest. A wave of magic sweeps outward. Ginny blinks spots of gold out of her vision and finds Dean staggering around the well, reaching for her. The Wishing Well looks old and moss-eaten still, but the wooden awning no longer rots, and the glint of fairy wings above the trembling, turquoise water proves that it's not quite the same place it once was. She reaches back, and Dean falls into her arms, kissing her firmly.
It's the kind of kiss she would have daydreamed about when she was younger. A Prince and his Knight, kissing in the wishing woods. She fists her hands in his cloak and drags him down for another kiss, trying to get as close as possible, breathing in his sharp gasp.
When he pulls back, the world looks different. Ginny lets go, and Dean sheds his cloak, sweat beading at his brow. He folds it over his arm, a sage-green swathe that tells them both exactly where they need to be. The woods are humid with the vapour of melting snow, and the noise of bird-song fills the clearing, the call of wild things returning home.
"We should go back," Ginny says. "The King will want to know how well you've done."
"How well we've done," Dean says, brushing away her tears with his thumb. She was unaware that she was crying; she'd hate it, normally, but right now she doesn't care. "Things will change, Ginny. I won't let it stay like this for long. Have a little faith for a while more."
"You have one week," Ginny lies. "I don't like crying, and I refuse to cry over a stupid boy who doesn't know how to cut mushrooms."
Dean chuckles. "Alright." His eyes gleam with boyish, happy light, despite their circumstances. "Did you know the wish would change the time of day?"
Ginny peers up at the space where the moon was and snorts, blinking at the bright sun. "How do we know it's not still midnight? This place is strange. Come on, I have a feeling Flitwick's going to have a lot of questions for us."
Dean offers his hand this time, and Ginny, after a moment of hesitation, takes it. She's got hope. It pushes her along, the idea of something lingering in the future. She glances up at Dean as he talks, more warm conversation pouring out of him, quiet and thoughtful and brilliant. She won't wait forever, but she'll wait more than a week. He deserves that. Ginny lets him guide her for once, and the way through the woods turns green ahead of them, the way it's been all along.
[Word Count: 1,962]