A/N: This just popped into my head, fully formed, out of the blue, so I had to write it down and post it. It's told from Ginny's POV, and I think she's probably in her late 20's or early 30's. It's much different from my other fics, but hopefully still a good read. Speaking of those other fics, I'm currently hard at work at the next chapters, and I hope to post one or the other within the next day or so. Anyway, here it is.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything relating to Harry Potter, and I don't make money off it either.
I've come here to think, to this place that is my one shelter in the world. I found it once during my third year at Hogwarts, while on a trip to Hogsmeade. My friends had been jabbering away about something or other, and I wandered away, curious to see what was outside of the town. I'd kept walking--it had been a wonderful spring day, I remember--and then I'd found myself on a sloping hill overlooking a valley. It had caught me by surprise, and it had been the most beautiful thing I'd seen in all my thirteen years. The way the wind rippled the bright green grass, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the sounds of insects buzzing about, the way the Sun reflected off of the brook that ran down the middle of it. What had struck me most, I suppose, was how alive it had seemed. It was teeming with life, from the insects that were flitting here and there, to the birds that were chirping, to the small animals that were out looking for food. From that moment, I'd always come here when I wanted to think about something, or I wanted to get away from my worries. I came here right before I graduated, and before I accepted the job of teaching Potions after Snape retired. I came here when Harry proposed. But when I came here, it was always spring or early summer, in the middle of the day when the valley was as busy and bustling as those big Muggle cities are.
It's the dead of winter now, and the Sun has just set. Clouds block the view of the sky, and the leaves have fallen off the trees. It's so still, so dead. There is no movement, no sound except for my breathing. I suppose it's just as well, though. I couldn't bear to be here in the spring, not after what just happened.
When Harry and I got married, he'd just started his job as an Auror, and I'd just accepted the Potions post at Hogwarts. We hadn't really talked about it, but we'd unofficially agreed to hold off on trying to have children. We were both young, and with him being away so much--my little hero fighting evil--and me living at the school for nine months out of the year, well, it was hardly stable enough for a family.
As I suppose they're wont, things finally settled down. Harry's schedule became more regular, and we bought a house just outside of Hogsmeade. Plenty of living space for us, plus any little Potters we decided to bring into the world.
That house became the signal that both of us were ready and, without needing to discuss it, we began to try for children. We've been living there for just over a year, so I don't know why, of late, I'd become worried that we hadn't conceived yet. I didn't talk to Harry about it--Merlin knows he has enough on his mind--but it began to nag at me, an itch that wouldn't go away, no matter how often I scratched it. So when the new term began, I went to see Poppy, to see if she could tell me why we were having trouble.
I found out today why, and I still can't believe it. I'm sterile. Of course, Poppy had put it differently--'unable to have children'--she had said, pity and sympathy all over her face. But no matter how she'd said it, the ugly truth was that I was sterile. Barren. Childless. Like this place I am now, my secret, special, wonderful, full of life place.
I hadn't really believed her at first. It didn't make an impact. "What?" I had said, feeling surprise, shock, numbness and disbelief all at once.
She had just shook her head, tears forming in her own eyes. "You can't conceive," she had said, or some such thing. It really hadn't mattered at that point.
I couldn't cry then, and I still can't cry. "How is that possible?" I'd somehow thought to ask.
"Trauma," she'd answered.
Trauma? What trauma? And then it had hit me. There was only one time in my life that my body had been stressed to the breaking point, very literally not my own. First year. The Chamber of Secrets. Tom Riddle.
I think Poppy knew what I'd thought when I'd thought it, because she still had pity and sympathy on her face, but now it held anger and frustration too, as if she could understand what I'd gone through. What I am going through.
But I hadn't known what to say to her. I had thanked her for her help as politely as I could manage--which, come to think of it, was probably not very polite--and I'd hurried out of the Hospital Ward, out of Hogwarts and out of Hogsmeade until I'd arrived here. I probably had some other classes this afternoon, but I couldn't be bothered with trying to get through them. I'd needed to escape to somewhere safe, somewhere where I could think, and I've been here all afternoon. Soon, I know, I have to go home and face Harry, but I can't bring myself to leave just yet.
I just can't believe it. How did this happen to me? To us? How had Riddle effectively commandeering my body--through every fault of my own--done this to me? And what am I going to tell Harry? How will I tell him that the enemy who deprived him of his parents also deprived him of his children?
On a rational level, I know I shouldn't blame myself for this. Riddle was clever, and I was a homesick child who'd been seduced by the promise of a friend who would always be there. But, bloody hell, I can't help but blame myself. If I had only listened to my dad, if I'd gone to someone sooner, or if I'd never written in that blasted diary, then Harry and I would probably already have two children, with another on the way.
Oh Merlin, what am I going to tell Harry? He's never said anything, but I know that he's always wanted children. I think part of him wants someone to care for. He was denied parents, so I think he's out to prove that he can be a father, so that no child will ever have to go through what he went through. I know he would make a great father.
I don't know what I'll tell him, but I have to tell him something. I can see it now. I'll go back to the house--the one that is ridiculously big for just the two of us--and I'll cook a wonderful dinner, to maybe make the pain a little less painful. Then I'll put on my best robes and wait for him to come home from work.
He'll get home, probably a little on the late side, his face a little weary from a long day at work. He'll perk up when we walks in the door, though, and smells the food already waiting for him. Then he'll see me, and he'll smile when he notices that I have my best robes on, and I'll fake a smile back, unable to tell him at the moment. After he's set his stuff down, he'll come over to me, and kiss me on the lips and say, "hey Gin. What's the special occasion?"
I'll just shrug, still unable to tell him, and say something about how I felt like having a nice dinner, just the two of us, blah, blah, blah.
I can see the look on his face, now. It's one of bemusement. But he plays along, because he knows me so well, and he loves me. We'll have a nice dinner, in which he will tell me all about his day, and I'll smile and nod, not really trusting myself to open my mouth. He'll notice this, of course, but he won't comment on it until after dinner, while we're cleaning up.
That's when he'll say, his voice quiet and serious, "something's bothering you. What is it?" Ah, that's my Harry. Never one to beat around the bush.
I'll tell him to sit down, which he'll do, in his favorite chair by the fire. But I'll still be standing, looking down at my hands, which are knotted together in front of me. I know that I can't look at him because I'll see the worry in his eyes, and I know that that's when I'd break down. So I'll keep my eyes down on my hands, and I'll match his quiet and serious voice. "I went to see Poppy today," I'll say, then pause, not really sure how to continue.
"Oh?" he'll say. The hope in his voice is causing my heart to shatter, but he needs to know. I have to tell him.
"Yes," I answer. "I went to see her, because I was-" here my voice will catch slightly, but I'll continue. "I was just making sure that everything was ok."
"Is everything ok?" He'll sound a little worried, a little alarmed, but mostly confused.
And I'll shake my head, unable to look at him. "No," I'll say, for emphasis.
I know he'll stand up and walk over to me, now very worried. I don't have to look up to know this, and I'll keep my eyes focused on my hands. I can't look at him. I'll feel his hands on my shoulders, and then he'll say something like, "what is it Gin? What's the matter?"
So much is wrong, Harry, I'll think. So much is wrong, and it's all my fault and it's all Voldemort's fault and Mum and Dad's and the world's. But for Harry, to spare him the agony of waiting so that he can have the agony of knowledge, I'll make it simple. I'll say something about "trauma" and "Riddle" and "unable to have children," in a broken voice.
The silence will be deafening. I know he isn't taking it well, so I'll look up, and I'll wish that I hadn't.
In his eyes I can see every emotion--all the pain, grief, anger, disbelief, shock, everything--all the emotions that I hadn't felt all day, but seeing them in his eyes has made them hit me with the force of a bludger. It'll hit me then. The numbness will disappear and I'll have no recourse but to break down right there. But before the tears obscure his eyes, in that instant before I start to cry, I'll see the worst of them all. The one emotion I had hoped never to see in his eyes. Disappointment, the absolute worst of them all.
I know he'll be disappointed because his own flesh and blood will never be, but the masochist in me will believe that the disappointment is for me, as if he blames me for not being able to provide him with children. It'll break my heart again. And I'll be there, crying for him, and he'll try to comfort me, holding me close and murmuring something about adoption, but I know that he's just as upset as I am. And that will make everything worse. He's allowing himself not to feel the grief and the guilt, because he thinks he's being strong for me. But I'll tell him then that I want him to let it out too, because the only way we'll get through it is by going through it together. And I know that that's all I'll have to say, because I know he wants to break down just as much as I've wanted to since I found out about our situation. And we'll probably stay like that the rest of the night, just crying, and talking, and working this out.
I suppose that's something positive. At least I know that this won't come between us. We'll have a lot of grief and sadness about this, but when it's all said and done, we'll still be there, together, because we love each other and we always will.
It's a bit of comfort for me as look out at this barren land. It has gotten colder now, the Sun long gone, but I can't really tell. The outside temperature is matched by the bitter cold that has somehow found its way beneath my skin, which no amount of layers or heating charms can cure.
I know it's time for me to leave now, to face Harry, the future, and
the truth--our truth, and our future. So I turn and head to our home, knowing
that spring always follows the winter and that there might be some hope
yet.