Summary: It's been twenty-five years since Gryffindor won the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup of '97, twenty-five years since Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley got together. In the wizarding world of Magical Britain, a lot has changed and a lot has stayed the same, for better or for worse - neither Harry nor Ginny are certain which. Harry, now higher-ranking in the Ministry of Magic than he had ever dreamed of being, is faced with an old enemy, even as he struggles to adapt to his new station in life. Ginny, journalist, successful ex-sportswoman and devoted mother, begins to rethink her career after receiving a letter from an old friend. A story exploring time, age, Aurors, Quidditch, and the future.
Written for the SIYE Birthday Challenge, celebrating 20 years of the Sink Into Your Eyes Harry and Ginny fanfiction website; also celebrating the 25th Anniversary of the Harry Potter books; and the 2022 birthdays of my favourite fiction couple. My little love note to all things Harry Potter.
0. Prologue
August, 2022
It's August already.
That was Harry Potter's first thought when he opened his eyes, early in the morning at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London. He turned his head groggily to the left, and was greeted - as he had been for most of the past twenty-odd years - by the sight of a messy tumble of flaming red hair.
Ginny Weasley. Mrs Potter.
It's been… quite a few years. And most of it good. No… all of it good.
Harry rolled closer to the comforting warmth of his wife's body, and winced as half the muscles and ligaments in his body protested painfully. Yesterday had been a long day, and - he didn't recover as fast as he used to. Can still do this though… Harry snaked his hand over Ginny's hip, slid his fingers down her stomach, and settled his face in the thick cloud of hair.
The flowery smell of her home-made shampoo immediately filled his nostrils, and he sighed. Held her for a slow count to ten. No, more. No, I don't want to get up. Five minutes…
Okay. Got to go now. Love you, Ginny.
"Mmm love," she mumbled.
"Did I say that out loud?"
"Yeswfghz…"
"Sorry I woke you."
"I needed to get up anyway."
Ginny brushed her teeth as Harry ran a brush through his hair - speckled now with grey, she noted, but faintly, like a trick of the light, not so's anyone who wasn't his wife would notice. Her own head had sprouted a few strands of white too actually, she thought, as she looked in the mirror.
What else has changed?
She was thicker of course. You don't go through twenty years and three children without putting on a few pounds. If Ginny looked at a photograph of herself back then, she'd probably think it was a photo of her Lily. The woman she saw staring back at herself in the mirror was a woman indeed - with hips that had gone through the padding of pregnancy, the upper arms of muscle beginning to give way to fat, and of course, wrinkles, damn them. She'd gone up a bra size too, and had to add underwire support.
"That, I've never complained about."
From behind, Harry put his arms around her, nuzzled the top of her head as he always did. With his wife and children, he was a hugger, and Ginny the mother of three knew now why, in a way Ginny the lover hadn't fully realised - he'd spent too many years as a toddler and a child without embrace. She let him hold her, holding her toothbrush out over the sink. "I know I didn't say that out loud."
"I saw you looking in the mirror. You are as beautiful and wonderful as ever, Ginny."
Ginny snorted. "I'm getting old."
"Who isn't? Come on. I'll make us breakfast."
The children were still sound asleep. With age too had come a strange restlessness, and like today, both of them were typically up and about by six.
Ginny woke up properly over a big mug that was nearly more milk and sugar than tea, watching Harry bustle around scrambling eggs and grilling sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms, cooking Muggle-style as he'd always had - though not as much now as they used to eat. She smiled her thanks as Harry carried the loaded plates over, and dug in.
For a little while more it was just her and Harry, as it had been at the start.
Then the embers in the kitchen fireplace turned green, signalling the first Floo of the day. And an owl pecked at the window pane, slipped a letter through the specially-designed slot, drank from the bird table set on the sill, and flew off.
The Floo caller was the duty Auror with the overnight updates, an old friend. "Morning, Nicholas," said Harry Potter, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement… as of a few months ago. He knelt by the fireplace and a low conversation began.
Ginny went over to the sill and emptied the post box. In the middle of the mass of newsletters, bills and the childrens' personal correspondence was a dark green envelope she recognised at once. Almost instinctively, she plucked it out from the pile, opened it first of all, and squinted at the untidy scrawl.
Dear Ginny…
"Morning Mum, Dad," mumbled Lily Luna Potter, trudging into the kitchen and going straight for the tea caddy. She casually tapped the kettle to get it boiling, flicked her wand at the egg basket. Three eggs soared to the stovetop and suicide-bombed the pan, the bits of shell picking themselves out of the runny mess and throwing themselves into the bin.
The Auror in the fireplace couldn't suppress a snigger; Harry only rolled his eyes. It was left to Ginny to hiss, "How many times have I told you, Lily, no magic outside Hogwarts! And your hair's a horror! We have a Floo caller!"
"Oh, Mum, it's just Nicholas… hi…" The fifteen year old girl sketched a wave at the fireplace.
"That doesn't mean you can get away with doing underage magic! Sorry," said Ginny, turning to the fireplace.
Harry was already pulling on his red Auror uniform cloak. "I've got to go, love. We've got a scene-of-crime. Muggle," he clarified.
"Be safe," said Ginny, waving the opened letter. "I'll be visiting Holyhead today. Something's come up."
Harry quirked an eyebrow at the mention of Holyhead. "Huh."
"Yeah. Search me. I can probably tell you more by lunch."
"Yeah, of course. Bye, Lily-Lu. Be good." Harry stepped through the flames and was off to work in a flash of green.
Ginny turned back to Lily, who was trying and failing to act nonchalant as she poked her eggs around the saucepan, Muggle-style, holding the spatula at arm's length with her fingertips and wincing as the oil hissed and spat. "Do you want to go to Granny's today and fly, or not?" she asked grimly.
The implied threat cut through all pretence at once; Lily was immediately contrite. "Yes, yes, I want to!"
"Then no more magic, and I want to see you finish at least one essay before lunch! I need to go to Holyhead, but I'll be back by noon - and I'll check!"
Ginny went out to the tiny walled-in yard festooned with flower boxes that was Grimmauld Place's sorry excuse for a back garden. The broom shed was barely the size of a toilet, but it served to keep some of her flying things, and Harry's and the children's brooms, under lock and key. She retrieved her favourite broom, and a few other odds and ends.
Looking back through the kitchen window, she saw her son, her Albus Severus Potter, join his sister at the table in a ragged old T-shirt she knew she would have to nag him to throw away, for the third time in a week. And suddenly Ginny leaned heavily on her broom, and felt like the last thing she wanted to do was fly. All she wanted to do was to curl up at home with her Albus and her Lily and…
Dear Ginny. The team lost to Wigtown 90-510 yesterday. They're really, really down. Would appreciate if you can drop by today, and…
The letter was still in her hand. She wanted to crumple it up and toss it to the floor, as she knew she would have, twenty years ago. But these days, Mrs Potter was the one picking things up off the floor…
Ginny sighed, and shut the door of the broom shed softly.
And went to nag Albus about his T-shirt.
I.
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood.
- Shakespeare -
"And this makes number three. Or seventeen, if you like."
Harry scowled. "I don't."
"What? Oh. Sorry, skipper. Figure of speech."
The Department of Magical Law Enforcement team stood around the stately Victorian terrace, in its thoroughly-modern, state-of-the-art kitchen, all polished glass and burnished metal. Victim number seventeen this year, Beni Chatterjee, 65, had been in the kitchen fixing an espresso on the machine that looked like a science fiction starfighter. He was sprawled on the kitchen floor now, coffee cup broken beside him, and eyes wide open in an expression of shock. Upstairs were victims fifteen and sixteen - his wife and his housekeeper.
Harry looked around the kitchen. It was lavishly appointed in the modern executive-grey style, but not wholly devoid of personality. On the breakfast bar, three sets of plates and utensils were laid out, as well as other preparations for breakfast. There were some odd bits and pieces here and there - a brightly-coloured egg slicer; in the sink, a cartoon animal coffee mug the size of a soup bowl; a pair of pink jogging trainers left untidily in the doorway. And pictures, so many pictures, of children in faraway places, in school uniforms, under mortarboards… the Chatterjees had lived a life not extremely unlike his family's, really.
And now they're dead, killed by someone using something they probably thought doesn't exist outside of children's books - magic - and here I am yet again, trying to uncover who and why.
Senior Auror Nicholas MacDougal hid a yawn; he had been up all night. "Now what, Harry?"
Harry pushed aside the sudden stab of world-weariness that had spiked him in the heart, focused on the job - his new job. He went over a mental checklist. Everything that needed to be done, had been done or was about to be, Harry knew. He had a relatively efficient organisation under his command; Patrolwizards to secure the scene of the crime, Aurors to investigate it, and a senior officer-in-charge. Cases no longer reached him where his legwork was required. No, that wasn't his job any more.
"Now," said Harry heavily, "I report to the Minister that we've had another one, right on our very doorstep. Two British Muggle civil servants and a caretaker, killed in the heart of London, and we didn't react in time to intercept the murderers. And this shit we haven't seen in bloody years."
The victims had been murdered with the Killing Curse. The two women had been untouched, but Chatterjee had had his dressing gown torn open, and on the aged chest was scorched: a skull with a snake emerging from its mouth.
Voldemort's Dark Mark.
The young Auror who'd first found the bodies hadn't even recognised the Mark, thought Harry. It had not appeared in years and years, and in between there had been other Dark wizards, other wars, other sigils of terror. It was the older Aurors, like Nicholas and Harry, who really appreciated what it meant.
"Well, you are on quite good terms with the Minister," said Nicholas, grinning tiredly.
"That particular relationship cuts two ways," Harry replied. "Right, I'm done here. Hold the fort until after I get back from Headquarters, then you can turn in. Tell the Department of Muggle Relations people they can secure the bodies."
And now I do my job. Harry went to the living room and over to the fireplace, now temporarily connected to the Floo, tossed in a pinch of powder and said, "Harry Potter to the Minister of Magic's residence!"
Although it was just gone seven in the morning, the Minister for Magic sat at her desk in the study, reading a report intently and scribbling notes every few seconds in a tiny, hasty hand. Her flower-print silk dressing gown was a bright splash of colour in the roomful of warm pastels and browns; the Minister had lined the room floor to ceiling with oak shelves packed to bursting with books, and more books were stacked on and around pine side-tables and wicker easy chairs. The room smelled faintly of fresh-cut roses from the small vases placed on the tables, and of parchment old and new. There was a large, badly-knitted rug in Gryffindor red-and-gold on the floor, now faded maroon-and-ochre.
The fireplace flashed green, and Harry's head poked through. "Hello," he called.
"Morning, Harry," said the Minister, smiling. "Come on through."
Harry stepped through the Floo connection and went over to the desk; the Minister put down her quill, stood and gave him a sisterly hug. Then she stepped back and her smile turned serious. "This is a business call, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it is," said Harry.
"Oh well," she sighed, and poured two cups of tea as Harry sat down, and began his report to Hermione Granger-Weasley, Minister for Magic.
"Early this morning at about six, a routine Magical Law Enforcement Patrol around London detected traces of offensive magic in a Muggle neighbourhood. Patrolwizard Tanner called it in and Nicholas MacDougal scrambled a response squad, but all they found were three dead Muggles. The victims were two British civil servants; Beni Chatterjee and his wife; and their housekeeper. Nicholas woke me up when they found this." He handed over a photograph, and his notes.
Hermione bit her lip. "The Dark Mark."
Here, in the privacy of Hermione's home, they could look at each other as the old friends they were. Hermione was Minister for Magic; Harry was the Head of Magical Law Enforcement; and both were household names, living legends in magical Britain. Thousands of wizards and witches looked to them for reassurance, they could not let themselves appear worried and uncertain in public.
Only in private. Only here.
"What do you think?" asked Hermione.
"I think the same people are behind at least three, probably four of the murders we've seen. Though we haven't found evidence of any connection yet." Harry pointed at the photograph. "This is them sending us a message. Not that Voldemort's back. He's long dead and gone," Harry said, matter-of-factly, "and most of his followers too. But his ideology, his evil, the things he did - someone's bringing that back."
" 'The evil that men do oft lives after them'," Hermione muttered.
The study door opened, and Harry's oldest friend entered, looking comically irritated. Ron Weasley grumbled, "It's much too early in the morning to share my wife with another man, even if he's my best…" he began, but stopped when he saw the serious looks on Harry's and Hermione's faces. "What's happened?"
"More murders." Again Harry passed his other best friend his notes, ignoring the fact that Ron, technically now a civilian, should not at all be reading top-secret Auror Office documents fresh off the press. He watched as Ron's eyes hardened a fraction, reading about the bodies, then his eyebrows shot to the top of his head.
When he returned the notes to Harry, Ron's brow was furrowed. "Them again, eh?" he muttered gruffly, looking down at the ragged knit rug.
Harry and Hermione exchanged glances. Ron, like Harry, had joined the Aurors instead of going to Hogwarts for one final year, as Hermione and Ginny had. Unlike Harry, however, who deep down had felt the Aurors were a calling, Ron had done it for one very personal reason - to avenge Fred Weasley. He had quit only when he felt he had done enough for the memory of one twin brother, and needed to help the other, living twin.
"Chatterjee and his wife - which departments of the Government do they work in?" asked Hermione.
"They're both in BEIS - Business, Energy and Industrial Strategy," replied Harry. "We're chasing up that angle, of course. As well as combing the house, checking their families for any magical connections - any lead we can find."
"The Chatterjees are the first Muggle Government officials to have been targeted recently," Ron observed. "And the first victims in London. Either he, or she, could have been involved in something sensitive…"
"It could be political," said Hermione tiredly. "Well, one way or another, it always is…"
Ron reached one long arm around and gave Hermione a half-hug, rubbing her arm. "We'll manage."
"I have to go back to Headquarters," said Harry, standing up. "You know how it is. I can release a statement by around eleven, I think."
"I'll join you at the press conference," said Hermione. "Please make sure any magical next of kin has been notified by then, and that the Muggles know." The latter job, again, would have to involve an expert from Muggle Relations.
The three friends looked at each other. Suddenly Harry felt again the flash of weariness that had struck him in the Chatterjees' kitchen. He saw the glances that his best friends shot each other, that unspoken communication Hermione and Ron had always had, even back in school, and he chuckled, a little sadly. "Do you think it was easier, back then? In Hogwarts?"
He didn't have to explain further; through the long familiarity of their friendship, they knew immediately what he meant. "We had Dumbledore, we knew we could always rely on him," said Ron. "Until… well."
"It wasn't easier, Harry, it was just more simple, in a way," said Hermione gently. "You focused on defeating Voldemort, and Ron and I," her hand sought out Ron's, and linked their fingers together, "we focused on helping you. We didn't think of anything else. Now we have family, children, employees, subordinates, voters. You're Head of Law Enforcement, and I'm…" Hermione shrugged modestly.
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess." Hermione's words didn't soothe this strange new feeling, they only brought it into sharper focus. Harry sighed. "Well… I'll be in Headquarters," he said again.
"See you at the Burrow on Saturday," called Ron, as Harry stepped into the fireplace.
Harry spent the early morning bobbing between his office, where a pile of paperwork awaited him, and the Auror Operations Room, which tracked the movements of his Aurors and plotted reports of offensive and Dark magic across magical Britain on a large map mounted on one wall. At all times there was a duty Auror and an assistant, staying in touch with Aurors in the field using the Auror Office's Communications Charms. After a nod of greeting the first time, the operations staff respectfully left him to his thoughts and got on with their work, directing and logging the movement of patrols and investigations across Britain.
At half past eight, Harry sat in the back of the briefing room which had been turned into the headquarters for investigating the murder spree, as the twenty-odd Aurors and Patrolwizards assigned to the case and not otherwise occupied settled themselves in chairs with notepads, quills, mugs of tea and coffee. The information boards pinned with sheets of parchment, maps, and photos had now overflowed the walls; someone had set up levitating boards which floated gently in mid-air to bear the excess. He looked to his left at the board holding photographs of the victims; a map of Birmingham (two murders, February) sidled out of the way. Mr and Mrs Chatterjee, and old Mrs Byrd, had now been added to the fourteen other photos pinned up.
An additional photograph of Beni Chatterjee's Dark Mark-disfigured chest had been included.
Standing at the front of the room was the Senior Auror in charge of the overall investigation - Susan Bones. Harry listened with half an ear as his old friend summed up what had been done and handed out the tasks for the day. A crime scene team assisted by Muggle Relations was restoring the crime scene now; the bodies had to be left how they were found, a powerful Cosmetic Charm placed on Mr Chatterjee's chest to avoid the Dark Mark becoming known to the Muggles. Soon the Metropolitan Police Service would be nudged to the scene. That was part of the new policies Harry, Ron and Hermione had pushed through - the Muggles had to know the truth, as much as possible. No more disguising murders as accidents.
So is that it, thought Harry angrily, his eyes fixed on the Dark Mark, is that all the change I've managed to bring about? Give them a slightly truer version of events, while the killing goes on and on. Over the years, he'd personally put away his share of Dark wizards, him and Ron and his friends, but what did it matter, the attitude remained the same, Muggles were still attacked, swindled, robbed… what have I done, what have I truly accomplished? Was it all downhill from killing Voldemort? Evidently, I didn't even manage to weed out all his followers.
There was an interruption. An Auror came into the room, rumpled and weary, but excited, and spoke quietly to Susan Bones, showing her a photograph. She turned immediately to Harry. "Harry, the Chatterjees. They have a daughter and two sons. The youngest, the daughter, Rani - she's missing."
Harry stood up, thinking rapidly. "Three plates laid for breakfast," he said out loud. "The cartoon coffee mug."
Susan nodded, quickly. "And this." She held up the photograph; it was of the pair of pink trainers. Small, sporty, trendy; the kind a young woman would wear. "Mr Chatterjee was a size ten; Mrs Chatterjee and Mrs Byrd, eights. These trainers are a six."
"Did she live with them?"
"No, she has a flat, but it's only two miles away on foot," replied Susan. "A team went over and found it empty. Current theory; she jogged over to her parents. And…" Susan made a tiny, helpless, open-palmed gesture with her hands.
He was aware now of all eyes in the room on him - watching, waiting to see what he would say and do. He had not been very long in this job, and though they knew who he was of course, they were still in the midst of forming their opinions of his preferences, habits, and ability. "The house has been searched?" asked Harry.
Susan and the Auror - Banks was his name - both nodded. Banks added, "We double-checked again, sir, and did a quick scan on brooms in a three hundred yard radius. No more traces of magic, Dark or otherwise."
Harry made his decision, and said loudly, addressing the room; "Then I'm calling it: this is now a potential kidnapping, until we find Rani Chatterjee or her body. Banks, you and the house team will stay on the Chatterjee investigation. Everybody else, drop the murders for now. Sue, you're in command. Have two good Aurors search the Rani flat and interview the neighbours, and get good photographs of the girl we can show around. Alert the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, the H.I.T. Wizards and the Reaction Squad."
Susan nodded as if she had anticipated the orders, and flashed him a quick comradely smile. For the benefit of the younger and less-experienced wizards and witches in the room, Harry explained: "If we find the kidnappers, we'll have to move in as quickly as we can, before they hurt her." Any more, he didn't say, remembering past incidents. "We are going to conduct a sweep of every part of Magical Britain. We'll ask everyone we can if they've seen this girl, or anyone acting suspiciously, and ask them to keep their eyes peeled. We'll check on the whereabouts of anyone with form for kidnapping, or violence against Muggles, and be alert for anything that looks odd. Remember - the first forty-eight hours in cases like these are most important. Let's make the most of it."
You managed that well, Harry, he thought, as Susan took over and started issuing orders. Your first nationwide emergency as Head of Department, and you were calm, authoritative. Inspiring, even, to some of them. Look at how the young ones, the Trainees responded: Chang, over there, and Warren, raring to go. He looked down at the bright pink shoes sitting on the table. That's because they don't know how slim the chances are of finding her alive. How few of these cases we've actually solved.
He glanced to his left again, at the photograph of the Dark Mark, at the skull-and-snake spectre of his past, now suddenly come back to haunt him.
How scared and uncertain I really feel.
It was about as warm as it gets on an August morning on Holy Island, off the coast of Wales.
Few trees grow wild on Holy Island, and those that do are short and scrubby, adapted for survival in the cold, windy, salt spray-soaked air. As such, the island is relatively flat, and from the peak of Holyhead Mountain - itself a scant 220 metres above sea level - the island is laid bare for anyone to examine, surrounded and lapped by the blue-green swells of the Irish Sea. The town of Holyhead, all of 13,000 souls; the few defiant stands of short oaks, remnants of an ancient forest; some gridded squares of cultivated land, pale yellow with the hardy oats sown here; the occasional wind-worn lumps of standing stone, all that remains of ancient buildings and ritual circles.
Well, and for those few who can perceive it, through layers Muggle-Repelling Charms, crouching low in the dubious shelter of Holyhead Mountain's southern slopes - the Harpy's Nest, the small home stadium of the Holyhead Harpies Quidditch Club, seating capacity three thousand.
As she walked through the 'Backstage', the stadium's staff-and-players-only sections, Ginny's head swivelled left and right, glancing this way and that, sometimes fixing on one point and gazing owlishly at it. On her shoulder was her favourite broom - her trusty old Firebolt Premier, on which she'd flown here after taking the Floo to Holyhead town. She emerged out of the Players' Tunnel on the Home side into the balmy August sun, and slowly scanned the pitch and the stands.
"Well, I haven't been back here a while," she observed neutrally, taking in a patch of weather-damaged ceiling in one corner of the Players' Tunnel.
"Not as a player, no," said the woman standing next to her. Tall, chestnut-skinned and chestnut-haired, though the shoulder-length locks were streaked now with tufts of grey, Gwenog Jones, ex-Beater, ex-Captain, still-manager of the Holyhead Harpies held her back soldier-straight, arms akimbo and hands on her hips as usual.
That's true. Ginny still accompanied her children to matches, but only when they were home for the summer holidays. This year they hadn't attended one yet - perhaps they would next weekend. "Even longer since I was a Harpy, then."
"Once a Harpy, always a Harpy," said Gwenog, snapping back with the speed of a familiar and well-used riposte.
Nine years of playing under Gwenog's forceful command had never blunted Ginny's own stubborn spirit. "So you've said," she replied evenly, noncommittally. "Well… what happened?" asked Ginny, expecting a tirade, a classic Gwenog bitch-fit.
To her surprise, Gwenog just sagged, her shoulders slumping in uncharacteristic defeat. "I tried everything, Ginny, and nothing worked. I couldn't bring them together. Couldn't lead them. You know what's been going on - I've written about some of this to you."
For a few years now Ginny and Gwenog had kept up a casual correspondence. It was the older witch's way of maintaining their relationship. So yes, Ginny knew a little about the gradual decline, the mounting losses, the player transfers. But Gwenog had always put a cheery spin to her letters. "But… but you won, I know, at least one League Cup… I remember…"
"Only the one. In all these years, since you left… one. And that was nearly ten years ago. And I couldn't bring myself to write about the falling revenue, the leaving fans…"
"Oh. I didn't realise." Hence the worn furniture and fittings around the stadium, and the little spots of disrepair, Ginny realised. When she had played with the Harpies, they had been one of the darlings of the British and Irish Quidditch League, and she herself also one of the crowd favourites. Ginny had never seen the Harpy's Nest in a condition less than neat and trim… or Gwenog Jones in a fit of what she would have described as 'despair', in any other woman. Because a despairing Gwenog was unthinkable. "I'm… sorry to hear that," she managed.
"This can't all be entirely news to you," Gwenog said, almost accusingly. "You reported on Quidditch for quite some time."
Ginny leaned her broom against the wall and crossed her arms, squaring up to her former Captain. "I covered all the teams in the League," Ginny replied. "As fairly and even-handedly as I could, I'd like to think. I didn't have time to follow the Harpies specially, even if I wanted to. Not while I was also busy being a mum to my three very young children. So yeah, I know about the losses, the transfers, the fines… for as long as I was on that job, any road. But I didn't keep up-to-date on everything, not after I moved on from Sports. I told myself I wouldn't keep grudges. I put the Harpies behind me… until today."
Gwenog opened her mouth to reply, and Ginny braced herself for echoes of old arguments, old grievances rehashed, keeping her jaw stubbornly set and her wand-hand alert, because Gwenog was Gwenog, who believed a little 'harmless' rough-and-tumble hexing was an excellent way to let off steam.
Instead, the tall witch turned on her heel and stumped to the opposite wall of the Player's Tunnel. The balled fists fell from her hips and her hands hung loosely by her sides. "The point of the matter is… I don't… well, we're eleventh place in the League. Our finances are deep in the red, and we've been eating into Club funds for a while. For too long - the Board is done. They want to cut off our budget."
Ginny rocked back on her heels, aghast. "Are they mad?!"
"No, just smart," said Gwenog, still facing the opposite wall, her back still to Ginny. "I know what you're thinking. Clubs have gone decades without lifting silver. Hell, Chudley is on a 130-year trophyless streak. Well, it's different now. The League's gotten more competitive, and nobody wants to waste the same kind of money they did before, backing clubs through decades of drought. Countless family fortunes have been ruined over this sort of thing."
Ginny nodded. The British and Irish Quidditch League was divided into two categories - the professionally-competitive teams, and the amateur or hobbyist clubs. Amateur club players received a tiny allowance, and practised mainly on their own time outside of their regular nine to five jobs. As such, they could never hope to achieve the performance of the professional teams, whose players could train all day every day, secured with salaries, sponsorships, merchandising royalties, and performance bonuses. For Gwenog, whose beloved Harpies had always enjoyed these perks, it would be unthinkable to have that Galleon stream cut off.
"I can't keep half our current players on the roster. Losing all the funding we have left means we're done for, I don't know, one, two decades maybe. It'd take that long to build up a new following, grow new talent in-house."
Let's stop beating around the bush, thought Ginny. "So what do you want me for, Gwenog?" You can't have asked me all the way out here just to have a shoulder to cry on.
"You're one of the most respected former players I can rely on," said Gwenog. "The fans and players we have left still talk about Ginny Weasley - I've heard them. If anyone can convince them to pull up their bootstraps, it's you. Besides that, I'd like you to come in and observe our training session today. You're fair. You'll neither kiss my arse nor slag me off out of spite if - if I've missed something."
She's afraid, Ginny realised. She's afraid she's lost it, and it's me she's turning to now to… diagnose her. Brash and cocksure, Gwenog had made countless enemies in her turbulent career as player and manager, and yes, it was true, there were many who would be glad to gloat over an aging and past-it Gwenog Jones floundering to coach a team of dispirited Harpies.
But… "I have a job, Gwenog, and three children," Ginny protested. "I still write for a living, even if it's freelance work these days and not sports, and James is only just starting out, and Al and Lily are still in Hogwarts…"
Gwenog turned around, and those large fists were once more on her hips. Ginny looked up, and then looked away as both women tried to pretend that Gwenog's eyes weren't moist and her nose wasn't red. "Alright, then just come in for a half-day twice this week. Come meet my players, give them a discreet bit of pep-talk, and observe our training regimen. Once in the morning, once in the afternoon. Today and tomorrow."
"I hung up my broom a long time ago, Gwenog," said Ginny. "And I never looked back. And neither did you." We agreed not to.
Gwenog looked pained. "I don't want to talk about the past. This is… something else. And you're not playing a game, nor even coaching, you're just… visiting."
"Gwenog, I'm old, fat, and out of shape. I'd look ridiculous. I didn't even bring any proper flying kit!"
"You're still trim enough to look damn good, trust me," said Gwenog, looking her up and down. "I'm quite sure we have club gear in your size. Please, it's just for a few hours."
Ginny sighed. I'm here anyway. "Until lunch, Gwenog. And you're right," she added sharply. "I'm just visiting."
The day's training began at nine, Gwenog said.
Half past eight found Ginny wearing a dark-green unmarked Harpies flying-jacket over some spare training gear Gwenog had dug out from somewhere. It was old and a little musty, but clean, and it more or less fit. She lugged a chest of practice balls out onto the pitch, and wondered what the hell had made her agree to this nonsense at the drop of a hat.
You turn forty-one in a few days, Ginny thought to herself. You've won your victories. You've led Dumbledore's Army, and seen Tom Riddle dead and burned and his ashes scattered. You flew with the Harpies and won your trophies. You were a journalist, and a damn good one. You're Harry's lover, his wife, Mrs Potter, and you have three fine children. So what, exactly, are you doing? What have you left to prove?
Ginny watched as two young players appeared across the pitch, dressed in shell jackets and shouldering brooms. They spotted her and gawked, then began whispering excitedly to each other, between nervous smiles and star-struck, bugged-out eyes. She checked her watch, the birthday gift from her parents. In the distance, filtering down from the stands, the Tunnel, the various entrances to the pitch, she saw more players and staff emerge in ones and twos.
Five to nine, just in time. Ginny could remember what Gwenog would once have said about being just in time for training: If you're fifteen minutes early, you're just in time; if you're just in time, you're late!
Gwenog herself appeared behind Ginny. Older now, mellower now. When the players were all assembled, the Harpies' manager said in a firm, clear voice: "Ladies, as you can see, we have a guest. This is my friend, Ginny. I don't think she needs any introduction, do you? Well, she's giving me a hand today. That's all. No big deal." Her voice hardened. "We all know what happened on Sunday. I'm not going to dwell on recriminations. Let's just get on with work. The wins will come in time, if we just keep trying."
The players didn't seem surprised at this speech - they were far more enthralled, or maybe spooked, by her presence - but Ginny was. That's not the kind of speech I'd have expected Gwenog to give. After a loss, Gwenog always bounced back. Always. Whether it was all fire and brimstone, dripping with barely-contained hate for the other team, or energetic and enthusiastic, often irritatingly so, full of new ideas, Gwenog always started the week after a loss bursting with an infectious vitality. Except once in a blue moon, and everyone knew that. Even giants fall, every now and then, but everyone knew - Gwenog got back up.
Well, maybe this is one of those days, thought Ginny, as they began warm-up. Soon snap her out of it, though.
Quidditch takes more physical conditioning than many realise. Just to manoeuvre a broom through high-speed turns, to bring it through dives and climbs and loop-the-loops, one's core muscles and general cardiovascular fitness must be in top condition. On top of that, Chasers add the jobs of a basketball and rugby player - having to pass the Quaffle and shoot it through the hoops, or intercept a pass or strip the ball off an opponent, usually by dexterity and wit, but also often out of sheer brute force. With her naturally small frame and quick metabolism, Ginny's arms were still slim and deceptively dainty, but even after all these years, iron-hard muscle and sinew lurked beneath, and her fingers when stiffened were like the griping claws of a peregrine.
In terms of training, Beaters in some respects have a less complicated job - focus on growing stronger arm muscles to swing the bat harder and send the Bludger flying faster and further. But it is the Seeker whose training is the most overlooked and misunderstood. Of all the team, the Seeker must be the best flyer, almost a racer - because of course, the Seekers are in a race against the Snitch, and against each other. Though there's an advantage of course to being lightweight, it still takes physical force and fortitude to fly a broom, and to fly with a broom, at its uttermost limits. The best Seekers are a balance of strength, dexterity, and quick thinking.
Like Harry, thought Ginny, and a small, fond smile crept onto her face, in the middle of the exercises. And the children. James, Albus, Lily, they've all a little bit of him in them, him and me. Then she scrubbed that out with a touch of the old discipline. Focus.
Which was what some of the other players were not doing, she couldn't help but notice. They went through the motions, but their minds weren't really on the job. You could tell they were dragging themselves to be here, thinking of the alternatives, dreaming of being somewhere else. Ginny marked the faces, and realised that it really was that easy, it shouldn't have surprised her, all those years ago, that the coaches could pick out those who were committed and those who were not.
Is that why you're doing this? So you can play coach? You left the Harpies, all those years ago. And you said you'd never look back. Yet here you are, came running the moment Gwenog turned on the waterworks. You always felt you could have accomplished more in professional Quidditch, didn't you?
Earlier in the changing room, Ginny had caught sight of herself in the mirror, in dark-green Harpies flying outfit once again from top to toe, and smiled a little wistfully. She looked like what she could have been, if she hadn't had the kids. If she had been in Gwenog's shoes. Probably have a couple more trophies though.
Ginny had to join in the warm-up, because she would be flying, but also in answer to the subtle challenge she saw in those watching young eyes, some of whom weren't more than a few years older than her James. She had to show she wasn't like some of those other players who got out and got fat. That she kept herself in shape - relatively. But there was no way Ginny was going to make it all the way through the warm-up of a professional Quidditch player in her twenties, obviously, so at what must be three-quarters of the way through, and about twenty percent longer than her most intensive workouts these days, Ginny felt she had earned the right to quit and watch.
Muscles aching, breathing hard, that was when she felt forty - when she realised they were only half the way through.
Bugger. Oh well. I'm a writer and a mum, for Merlin's sake!
But sitting there panting, wiping at the sweat and knowing from the pinprick of pain in one knee that she'd pushed it a tad far, Ginny felt the first stirring of doubt in her belly.
Harry was already home and chopping tomatoes and green beans when Ginny stepped out of the kitchen Floo.
He turned, took one look at her Holyhead training gear, and said, "Mmm, just like old times. A very nice birthday present, love, but a couple of days late. Go up to the bedroom, I'll be with you in a jiff."
Ginny laughed and smacked his arm. "You wish, Potter. What's that you're making?"
"Chicken curry. Out of a packet, of course. I thought I'd throw in some of this lot, make sure the kids get their five-a-day." Harry opened the lid on a nearby pot, and the smell of chicken, chilli and spices filled the kitchen. "This will all be done in fifteen. Why don't you wash up and then tell me what this is all about?"
After a quick shower, Ginny described over lunch a sanitised version of Gwenog's request and her day with the Harpies over chicken curry and rice, leaving in just enough hints that Harry could put the pieces of the real story together. Halfway through James came home, his shift over, and scooped himself a massive mound of rice while demanding she start her story over.
"So you're going to coach the Harpies, Mummy? Cool!" Lily had never seen her mother play, but she'd been brought up on a diet of stories about Ginny's best games, thanks to the Weasleys. One of Ginny's posters still took pride of place on Lily's bedroom wall. As such, the Harpies benefited from her loyalty by association. "Maybe now they'll win the Cup!"
"No, I'm not coaching them," said Ginny. "Eat your tomatoes, Lily, they're good for you."
"How good can they be if they're slimy?!"
"It sure sounds like Gwenog wants you to though," said James.
"She knows better than to ask," said Ginny. She didn't miss the looks her children exchanged, but didn't comment.
"Lily and I can take care of ourselves, Mum," said Albus. "If you'd like to, you could…"
"Thank you, sweetheart, but I'm quite happy where I am," Ginny replied. "Al, did you clean your room like I told you to? I'm not going to see sweet wrappers and pants lying around if I go up, am I? How's the homework getting along, Lily?"
"Going great mum, working on it!"
"Just a little bit more to pack up!"
"Mm-hmm."
Harry checked his watch, and got up, carrying his plate over to the sink. "I have to go." He gave Ginny a tell-you-all-about-it-later look as he put on the red Auror cloak.
She nodded. "Love you."
Harry kissed Lily on the top of her head, ruffled Al's hair, patted James on his shoulder; stepped into the Floo, and was gone.
Ginny spent the rest of the day writing, doing the laundry, making sure James slept before his next shift, going over Golpalott's Laws with Albus, and mending Lily's torn flying trousers. The familiar routine was relaxing. In the evening, she made a cottage pie, sent off a second draft of the article she was working on, and made sure James was early to work.
Harry had managed to spend lunch and dinner with them, but both stops were brief and he had been summoned back to the office shortly after dinner.
As such it wasn't until late at night, in the privacy of their bedroom, that Ginny could unburden herself fully on Harry.
When she was done he simply shook his head. "Roll over."
Ginny did, and let out a small sigh as Harry began kneading her shoulders. "Mmm. It's been a while. I think I pushed myself a bit too far today, during warm-up."
"You didn't get into a hexing match with Gwenog, did you?"
"No, I didn't. It was all very professional." She reached behind her and swatted wildly at Harry's low muttered for once. "Gwenog's really shaken, so I thought, well, just this one time."
"What did you think of the team?"
"No idea. We didn't talk much. I'll get to know them more tomorrow." Ginny turned over onto her elbow, and fondly stroked the join between Harry's neck and shoulder, feeling the tense muscles there, and noting his slightly-too-tight jaw. "You look like you could use a massage too. What's happened?"
Harry told her. When he mentioned the Dark Mark, Ginny felt the old pains rise up again - snatches of memory of Fred, Colin, the corridors of a beloved school turned into a nightmare, the terror of the immediate post-war years, knowing that Harry and Ron were out there finishing off the last of the Death Eaters. And now they were back.
She tried not to let her emotions show, but after a quarter of a century together Ginny and Harry knew each other too well for that. Still, she could sense the satisfaction in Harry that she hadn't done something silly like panic, burst into tears, or rage pointlessly at something they could not control. There was something lying beneath, however - some deeper emotion in Harry she hadn't seen before. "What is it?"
"It's just… the thought that after all these years, they're still there. It's like all I've done, all we've been through, it's all been for nothing. And now there's a young woman out there, they've taken her, and doing Merlin knows what to her, and I've called for a nation-wide search, but…" Harry's fist clenched in the bedsheets.
Ginny knew there was nothing she could do to help him, but she could do this. She lay back, and pulled him gently down to lie beside her. "You did all you can then, and you're doing all you can now," she said. "Now sleep. You'll be better for it, and the Office might call for you at any time." She reached over to the bedside table, picked up her wand, and waved, extinguishing the light orbs.
"You always were the practical one," said Harry, in the darkness.
Ginny groped for his hand, and squeezed it comfortingly. "Night, love."
"Night."
Author's note: And this is this year's birthday fic - a look into the future, or perhaps the now. Like it, loathe it; do please drop me a line and let me know!