Ain't No Valley Low Enough
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is NOT MINE…
Ginny was convinced that the weather affected people much more that it was given credit for. It had be the sudden heat wave that caused the unexpected rise of witches and wizards suffering from hexes, either misfired or otherwise, all inspired by sheer anger. She could not help noticing as she Apparated to the Burrow that even the garden in the front yard was withering from a lack of water despite its tender cultivation.
She was greeted by the distinct sounds of four boys playing – pit patter of footsteps, loud shouts and even squeals – all emanating from the backyard. It sounded almost the same way it did when she was a young girl with her brothers still staying at home. But that time, her mother's voice could be heard yelling loudly at her children. Now, though, her mother could only bring herself to gently chide her grandsons, secretly loving them more than the rest of her growing brood of grandchildren.
Ginny walked into the kitchen where her mother was bustling about, preparing for dinner, looking extremely flustered from the heat. Her mother had never had the chance to suffer the symptoms of empty nest syndrome – there was always something she had to do, someone she had to look after. After the war, she had been busy with all their weddings, after which there were the grandchildren and ever since Terry got sick, she had been actively involved in looking out for Ginny and nowadays taking care of her grandsons during the daytime when Ginny had to work.
"Hello, Mum," Ginny greeted her, sitting down in a chair, finding relief in doing so after standing and attending to numerous patients all day. "How are the boys?"
"Oh, they're fine." Her mother turned around, blinked at her only daughter, before fixing her with one of her trademark stares.
"What?" Ginny put her hands up after placing her work bag on the table, already feeling guilty for a crime she was not even aware of committing.
"Don't 'what' me, young lady. You know perfectly well what I'm taking about." Her mother said sternly. How was it that her mother was still able to make her feel like a sheepish four-year-old girl with red pigtails?
"Well, this may come as a surprise to you, but I have absolutely no idea what you're going on about," Ginny said, bemused.
Her mother was not relenting. "Oh please!" She looked very exasperated.
Ginny was convinced her mother was bordering on insanity probably caused by the rise in temperature. It was at moments like this when she badly needed her father's calm pragmatism. Unfortunately, her father was either playing with the boys in the backyard or preoccupied with one of his Muggle devices that he loved to tinker with in his work shed
"What is it, Mum? Just tell me," Ginny told her rationally.
"Well, I wished you'd been the one to tell me, and not Ron. Why didn't you have the slightest decency to inform me this morning when you dropped the boys off that Harry was back and that you spent the entire afternoon yesterday, with him?"
Ginny opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water, staring at her mother's positively livid expression, "I forgot…I was rushing off for work, Mum; you know how angry Taylor gets if I'm late. Besides, it was no big deal."
"No big deal!" Her mother looked incredulous. "No big deal when Harry comes back after so many years away and spends the very day he's back with you and your sons!"
"Mum, relax; I'm sorry I forgot tell you." Ginny attempted to placate her mother. "It really isn't a big thing. We were at Hogsmeade yesterday and we bumped into him. He took a shining to the boys; you know how they are, always friendly and curious."
Molly smiled, proudly, "Of course, I know, it runs in the family. Why do you think I'm so adorable?"
It took a full minute for Ginny to realize that her mother was joking, in one of her rare fits of jocularity and jovialness. You never could tell with her mother.
"Mother!" Ginny chastised her lack of modesty, laughing.
"Mum!" It was Leo, who had wandered into the kitchen to ask his grandma for a glass of fresh lemonade, and was distracted by the sight of his mother.
He threw himself into her outstretched arms, allowing himself to be showered with affectionate kisses. Even though Ginny had a soft spot for Leo, she loved all her sons, in different ways but just as much as the next. They knew it well enough, never bothering to compete amongst each other for her love.
Besides, as much as she loved her job and would never quit it, being away from her boys for the better part of the day seemed even more distressing and troubling ever since Terry died. They were literally the only thing she had left of her memorable marriage to Terry, her flesh and blood, products of the love Terry had for her and she him. It required a great amount of inner strength to part with them every morning.
So before her mother could prod her even further about the harmless day she had spent in Harry's company, Ginny gathered her sons and returned home. Blue Creek Manor got its name from the creek nearby that ran down the magnificently sloping lawns to a good sized lake.
The house itself was stately, a structure of warm redbrick with a white trim, three stories high, with a shingled barn and house elves as well. It made for a comfortable home, one that Ginny had grown to love as her own.
The memories it held, she could do without. At night it was the worst. After putting her sons to bed and seeing to the house elves, there was nothing else to distract her from the emptiness of her massive marriage bed with four posts or the heart wrenching memories. All those memories of her marriage would rush back to her, memories that she battled to keep locked away.
She would have an image of Raphael as a baby, in his father's arms, his eyes as wrinkled as an old man's, his hair stiff with birth matter. She would recall the dress Terry had bought for her on her twenty-eighth birthday, a sort of red velvet and crinoline confection that sounded like paper as it moved. She would remember the first day Warren walked by himself: he strode wildly, pitched forward and fell into Terry's arms.
It was not just the personal sadness that swept over her so many times during the day – a kind of emptying out of any joy in the moment, and then filling up, as of a well, with sorrow – it was the knowledge of the finality of death. Terry was not going to come back; he was not going to walk through the door as if everything was fine.
Ginny was mulling over this the next day morning, having survived another unpleasant, sleepless night. It was the first day she was on leave from work, having requested to take a week off to be with her sons during their summer vacation.
Coincidentally, or maybe a matter of fate, Harry, after grabbing an early morning breakfast with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, decided to drop by Blue Creek Manor equipped with the knowledge that the whole family would be at home that day. He missed the boys and wanted very much to spend more time with them. On the other hand, he did not really want to think about the implications of wanting to spend more time with their mother.
If he were honest with himself, he would realize that all day yesterday he had been thinking about Ginny more often than he imagined possible. If Harry actually thought about it carefully, he would realize that ever since Sunday he had been falling harder for Ginny. That was why on this sweltering morning he was here at her doorstep, at her very mercy.
He knocked on the door, completely ignorant of the workings of his own heart, so to speak. One of the house elves answered the door, recognized him instantly and invited him in, directing him to the parlor before hurrying off to announce his arrival to the lady of the Manor.
There were sounds throughout the house that indicated activity: a drawer closing, a shoe dropped, the scrape against the stove of a cast iron pan, and the distinct sounds of children already up and noisy. In the sunlight of the transom windows, dust motes sparkled against the dark woodwork.
Harry should have waited in the parlor, patiently, for the arrival of the mistress of the house, like another other well-mannered guest. But he was never really patient by nature and this morning, he seemed to be in a heat stimulated grip, in some sort of great hurry – to do or say what he had no idea.
So he rose from his seat and climbed the stairs, hoping to barge into the boys' rooms and surprise them. But he never got as far as the boys' bedroom down the hallway, their loud noises his guide.
Ginny who had recently taken up residence in the guestroom, often left her door open a crack to catch a breeze on hot, sultry summer days like today. That was what arrested Harry's attention as he paused midway in his stride, mesmerized by the sight that met his eyes.
Ginny was standing at the mirror in the bedroom, fully dressed, in an attitude of perfect immobility typically uncharacteristic of her nature. Another woman's hands might have fluttered all about herself, refastening her hair for example but Ginny was completely still. So intent was her commune with her image that at first she did not notice Harry's presence at the doorway. But it was not vanity that made her oblivious to her spy; no it was something else, something far more dispiriting.
The golden eyes to which Harry had always subconsciously attributed so much beauty had taken on a look of despair. The luster had gone out of her skin, her lips, that lovely mouth seemed almost bloodless. It was as if he was seeing Ginny in her most naked and vulnerable state - her mask, her pretence at happiness all completely fallen away.
Harry had to bite his lips to keep from calling out and perhaps some sound escaped him, for Ginny started and swiveled in his direction. For one second, before she could compose herself, he experienced the full force of that despair: bottomless, black and irreparable. And though she managed a smile and put some warmth in those golden eyes, Harry was sure of what he had seen and it made whatever joy he had felt all morning about seeing Ginny teeter and collapse. For some unfathomable reason, Harry felt deeply affected by the revelation that Ginny already loved someone else; someone who was physically dead but very much alive in her heart and mind.
"Harry, what a surprise!" Ginny murmured, crossing the room towards him.
"Sorry, I didn't wait downstairs. It was getting rather hot and stuffy in the parlor and the boys sounded like they were having fun so I thought of surprising them…" he trailed off, babbling incoherently.
Ginny nodded, smiling. "I understand. I hate the parlor, myself. It gets terribly cold in the winter and awfully hot in the summer."
She paused in the hallway, and faced Harry. "Why don't you go down to the breakfast room while I check in on the boys?" Ginny suggested. Harry agreed.
The breakfast room was pampered with crimson roses and trimmed with dark mahogany. As Harry took his seat at the table, the pungent smell of coffee being brewed in the kitchen nearby stirred his senses.
After some time, Ginny arrived, looking flustered from both the heat and the effort required to convince her sons to stop their summer morning ritual of pillow fighting and get dressed for breakfast. The fact that Uncle Harry was here had been rather helpful in getting them moving.
"So what do you want for breakfast?" Ginny asked, taking a seat across from him. Instantly a house elf popped out of thin air and placed a plate of freshly made scrambled eggs and toast in front of her.
Harry patted his already full stomach. "Had breakfast at The Burrow. Your mother really outdid herself." He grinned.
Ginny laughed. "Well, it's not everyday you return to England after so many years. She's missed you, that's all."
Harry wondered briefly if Ginny had ever missed him. True, they had never been close but he had always been a part of her family, as well as inevitably connected to her through mutual friends.
His attention was drawn away at that moment by the happy arrival of the boys, all four of them whose presence was always vivid, as they walked into the room. After enthusiastic greetings of 'Good morning, Uncle Harry!' they settled down to eat, in considerably high spirits since it was the holidays. All of them tucked straight into their porridge the house elves had served, while Leo, ever a finicky eater, looked at his bowl with suspicion.
"It's only porridge, Leo." Ginny said.
"I must have brown sugar and raisins," He said, and Ginny, who often indulged him, nodded to the house elf that was standing by the door.
"You'll look well and happy today," Harry said to them.
"That's because we don't have to rush and get ready to go to The Burrow so that Mum can get to work on time," Raphael explained.
Ginny looked sheepish. "My supervisor, Taylor, hates it when we come in late."
Harry grinned, "Understandable. My coach at Messers made us do three hundred push ups if any of us were late by five minutes."
"That's Lorenzo Machiavelli, right?" Warren asked, well versed in Quidditch.
"Yeah."
"I heard he's a real tyrant," Warren commented.
"He's got a good heart though. He means well," Harry explained.
Warren shrugged, obviously uninterested by such a balanced viewpoint. "Greg drew on the back of our bedroom door," he announced with unconcealed satisfaction, much to the horror of Greg.
"I did not!" he said, though the tell tale sign of his ears turning red and the shifting of his eyes told them otherwise. Greg had always been incapable of a successful un-truth, a quality Ginny had loved in her husband.
It became plainly obvious to Harry that Greg, though silent and distant most of the time, was still a child and even more so in the presence of his brother Warren, who brought out the worst in him.
"You did so," Warren insisted.
"It was a boy on a Quidditch broom," Leo offered this morsel of information helpfully.
"Is that so?" Ginny asked Greg.
His face went as red as tomato, making him all the more upset with himself.
"It was a rather nice drawing, Mum," Raphael spoke up, in an attempt to mollify his mother and defend his brother.
By now one had to have sympathy for Greg who, after all, had committed no crime greater than the display of passion for Quidditch, whereas Warren had committed the graver sin of informing. Thus were the joys of parenthood present to Ginny daily: sorting out the innocent from the not entirely innocent of misdemeanors.
"You have paper to draw on, don't you, Greg?" Ginny asked, gently.
"Yeah, I do, Mum but…" he trailed off, unable to find an adequate explanation for his sudden streak of vandalism.
"After you have eaten your breakfast, you will wash your drawing off the back of the door," Ginny said, quietly.
Greg nodded.
Warren looked unsatisfied, "If Daddy was around-"
He never got to complete his sentence for Ginny had rose from her seat abruptly, her eyes flashing with fury, "Complete that sentence and you will be grounded for the entire summer, I promise you that, Warren Beatty Boot! And if your father was around, he would be horrified with the way you've been treating your older brother with no respect and love whatsoever."
Warren seemed instantly remorseful. He looked quite scared by his mother's unexpected and atypical burst of outrage, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.
"I didn't mean it, Mum," He whimpered.
Ginny felt her anger dissipate, quickly replaced by embarrassment at losing her head in front of Harry of all people. She glanced at him, and he was looking at her, not with disgust, not even with pity but with an intently scrutinizing gaze. She wished he would not look at her in such a fashion – it made her feel entirely exposed, as if she was being studied under the lenses of a microscope.
"Just think before you talk from now onwards," she cautioned Warren, taking her seat.
"So what are your plans for today?" Harry asked, changing the direction of the conversation and lightening the atmosphere.
"I was thinking of having a picnic down by the lake, and the boys could go swimming."
"Yeah! Swimming!" Leo crowed with delight.
"Absolutely wicked!" Raphael responded with a grin.
"You could join us, of course," Ginny told Harry.
He shrugged, "Don't think there's anything else of any importance I should be doing today, so yes, count me in."
"Prince Leo, let me know when you want the troops to fire," Raphael bowed to his youngest brother, waiting for his orders.
Some distance away, standing on the grassy area near the bank of the lake, was the Great Evil Wizard – Harry in a conjured up dark cloak that covered his face – and his two minions, Greg and Warren, looking unconvincingly evil.
Ginny sat under the shade of the huge maple tree, on the large picnic mat, completely amused in the scene unfolding before her. Her sons always had an active imagination, engaging in all sort of scenarios of make believe that she loved to watch and sometimes, even be a part of. Terry had always humored them, reluctantly playing along but very much preferring to sit by, watch and laugh. Harry on the other hand seemed downright thrilled to be playing with the boys, obviously having suffered from a severe lack of a childhood.
"We will attack the kingdom, soon!" he roared convincingly, startling his two minions.
"Yeah!" Warren crowed.
Greg looked unconvinced, but then again he was previously one of Prince Leo's knights now under an Imperius Curse by the Great Evil Wizard.
"I don't want to fight," he said to Harry.
"What? Giving up? You cannot give up. Do you know why among all those knights I captured you?" Harry asked him, seriously. Greg shrugged.
"Because you are my long lost son!" Harry announced. Warren, in a fit of inspired dramatic flair, collapsed onto the grass, as if shocked to death by his master's declaration.
Greg stared up at Harry, his eyes cold and clear, "You are not my father." The icy tone in his voice was unmistakable before he spun on his heel and stomped off.
Harry straightened up, the stab of pain he had felt in the morning when chancing on Ginny returning in its full force, piercing him in the spot where he assumed his heart to be.
Ginny, having witnessed and heard the entire exchange, stood up, moving quickly towards Greg, pulling him into her arms. "What's wrong, darling, what is it?"
Greg shook his head, silently as he coiled his arms around his mother's waist without hesitation. He was in his bathing suit, like the rest of his brothers, but as dry as a bone since he had not joined the other boys in their swim earlier, having always had an intense fear of the water.
Greg just did not willingly go near water. 'It's impossible,' Terry had toldGinny one summer when Greg was four or so, having returned from a swim in the lake with his sons, 'to teach Greg to swim because he refuses to get into the water.'
When they visited Terry's Muggle aunt in Florida, Raphael ran into the waves; Terry had to chase him and explain the undertow. Even Warren, a mere toddler then, struggled to get out of Terry's arms and paddle. Greg would not even walk on the damp sand.
"There is too much water," he told Ginny solemnly.
"Greg," she had coaxed him then, "come in, just a little, Mummy will hold you."
"Is that the deep end?" His terror was like a scent on him. "I don't want to go into the deep end. Do I have to go?"
"No, no, darling." Ginny said, scooping him up, unsure whether she should just stomp straight out there and dip him into the water, get it over with. She did not want her son to grow up timid of this and of that. "I'll hold you really tight. I won't let the ocean snatch you away."
"You know what?" Greg told her, buying time. "You can go to the deep end. You can go there. You just start walking, until it goes over your head and then you keep on walking on the bottom. But then if you want to go back, that's too hard because the water just rubs all the, all the…."
"What, Greg?"
"All the feet marks fade away. You can't ever turn around and go back. You can't find it." And Ginny, chilled, sat with him, all that long afternoon, high on the brow of the beach, scooping sand.
Now, as she stood there embracing Greg, while Harry continued to play with the other boys, she felt as if she had walked into the deep end and could not seem to find her way back to shore.
Greg slowly moved away, removing his arms from around his mother's waist.
"You alright, now?" Ginny asked. He nodded, sitting on the picnic mat. Ginny joined him and handed him a sandwich. He gobbled it up ravenously.
Awhile later, the rest, all sweaty and starving, joined them. After lunch, the boys went for another swim – not really a proper swim since all they really did was attempt to splash as much water on each other as possible. Greg chose to sit on the bank safely, watching them.
That left Harry, full from the delicious lunch, sprawled out under the shade of the tree, beside Ginny who was looking out to the lake wistfully, leaning against the trunk of the tree.
There was a lazy lethargy in the hot afternoon air. Harry bit back a yawn. He glanced at Ginny, who pulled a pin from her hair, the sight of the cascade of flame colored hair falling from the undone knot momentarily compelling.
"Why don't you swim as well?" he asked her.
"I would, normally. I just don't feel like it." Harry was so distracted by the image of Ginny in a bathing costume, slipping into the water of the lake, that it was some moments before he could continue the conversation.
"So tell me," he began, "Tell me about how they were born..." He trailed off, wondering if she would think he was prying. He was simply curious about all the facts of these boys' lives that he had missed out on.
Ginny did not seem to mind. She smiled, settling back against the trunk, her legs stretched out comfortably and crossed at the ankles.
"Well, let's see; Raphael was the easiest. He was born a year and two days after our wedding. The moment I went into labor, he was born, just like that. He was such a sweet baby too. Warren was easy as well. He was born in two hours, went right to the breast, and camped there for 4 days. His blanket looked just like a cape; even the nurses thought so. He loves hearing that story about how he was born a hero."
"Leo was the hardest. Merlin, the healer was worried that my spine would burst. He was a really big baby and carrying him was not easy at all. My back was constantly aching. I was practically bedridden during the last two months. Terry had to carry me to the bathroom when I wanted to go to the loo. It was brutal labor as well. The healers had no choice but to operate." She shuddered at the memory of all that pain, not just the pain of the labor but the pain of not having Terry around, not having him be there for her always, like he was during those times, holding her hand, wiping her tears, laughing with her.
"What about Greg?"
"28 hours. The doctors wanted to go in and get him, but I knew he'd come at his own time. You can never rush him."
"I'll keep that in mind,." Harry murmured.
"Was it very bad?" he asked, quietly, "when Terry got sick?"
Ginny drew in a deep breath, letting the air out in a loud sigh.
"If you don't want to talk about it, it's fine. I really shouldn't be asking either," Harry quickly said, mistaking her sigh for distress and reluctance to speak.
Ginny shook her head. "It's fine. If anything, you're the best person for me to talk about this to. I mean, you've known grief before," she told him sincerely. Her words gave him hope; hope that he was being accepted, not as lover, but maybe as a friend.
So she told him all about the last year of her marriage, before it ended with the death of her husband. She told him how it had been a real agony, a complex series of organ failures and cluster catastrophes that started with a kidney cyst, hurtling toward death with absurd speed that ended the day she brought Terry home from St. Mungo's after breakfast only to leave again in a hearse after dinner.
"It was a horrible train wreck, a blunt invasion of our marriage." Ginny murmured, softly. She was dry eyed, having already wept every remaining tear she had, some time ago.
"Merlin," Harry muttered, shaking his head. Impulsively, he reached across the picnic mat and covered her hand with his, squeezing her fingers tenderly, reassuringly. She smiled at him gratefully.
"I remember when you two started dating back at Hogwarts," Harry said, in an attempt to change the direction of a conversation to one of more positive overtures.
Ginny nodded, a glazed look in her eyes as she remembered, a wisp of a smile on her lips. "No one thought we'd last. We never thought we'd last. We were too young - I was only sixteen - and too different. But he always made me laugh…"
"Ron was sure he was just another one of your many short-term boyfriends."
"Many boyfriends?" Ginny asked, wryly.
"Hey, you dated a lot of boys back then," Harry reminded her. She rolled her eyes.
"Why didn't we ever date, back in Hogwarts?" Harry wondered aloud.
"We were too self-absorbed in our own lives, too much alike then…"
"And now?" he asked causally.
"Too old-"
"Speak for yourself, Gin. I'm a sprightly thirty two year old wizard in the prime of his life," Harry declared mock indignantly.
"Are you, now? Don't look it," Ginny stated with a straight face.
"What?" Harry was incredulous.
A cosmic laugh – unfettered, releasing months of grim remorse, bubbled up inside Ginny and broke the surface. The laughing itself was so contagious that Harry himself could not help chuckling along with her, that even her sons splashing about in the lake heard their mother and smiled to themselves.
"You needed that," Harry told her.
She smiled at him, and, as easily as that, felt another tide come for her at last.
The sun, blazing in all its afternoon glory, seemed not to deter Harry nor the Boot boys, all extremely keen on having a game of Quidditch.
"Let's see." Harry walked up and down studying the line up of boys before him. "Due to a severe shortage of players, we'll just have a keeper and a chaser in one team and a keeper and two chasers in the other team," he decided.
"Can I be in your team?" Warren asked quickly, eagerly, clutching his Firebolt 2.1.
"I think you'll be better with Raphael and Leo." Seeing the slightly crestfallen look on Warren's face, Harry quickly added, "Leo's a little small and unsteady on his broom so I thought you'd be able to help him a bit."
Warren seemed consoled by the fact that Harry trusted his Quidditch abilities to the extent of being able to guide his brother.
"Come on, Leo, let's do a warm-up round," he said to his younger brother before taking off on his broom, Leo and Raphael at his tail.
"And you are in my team," Harry told Greg, who shrugged.
"I can't fly," he stated matter-of-factly, clutching his seemingly well used Firebolt 2.1.
"Have you flown before?" Harry asked.
"No." Greg shook his head. It was a blatant lie.
He had flown before, played Quidditch with his brothers and fathers dozens of times, but ever since his father died he had locked his Firebolt in the closet, vowing never to touch it ever again. Quidditch was something he had shared with his father.
While Warren and Raphael were knowledgeable about the various Quidditch teams, leagues and showed great enthusiasm for the game, Greg had an exceptional skill on his broomstick: his quick reflexes; his stunning, sharp dives; his ability to grab the snitch within the shortest span of time. It was his father who saw this talent in him and told him so. They would spend countless hours during the holidays and even on weekends, playing Quidditch, practicing and honing his skills. One day, his father always told him, you will become a Quidditch player as great as Harry Potter.
By now, it was quite obvious that Greg was lying. Harry put his hand on the younger boy's shoulder, crouching so that they were eye to eye. "Listen, Greg, I know I am not your father. Trust me on this; I know I can never take his place. But I knew him for a while, back when we were in school together and even during The Second War and from what I know of him, I would think he'd be rather disappointed to find out that one of his sons doesn't play Quidditch anymore."
Greg stared at him intently. "Are you sure?"
"You know me; I'd never lie to you," Harry said, looking Greg right in the eye.
Greg looked over Harry's shoulder at his mother, who sitting on the picnic mat under the tree, absorbed in her book: his mother whom he loved, his only remaining parent; his mother who did not know about his secret vow; his mother who took as much pride in his Quidditch talent as his father. What would she think if he backed out of this game?
"Okay, then," Greg agreed.
"Good man," Harry grinned, pleased, patting Greg's shoulder.
Warren flew towards them, then. "Hope you'll aren't talking about anything too serious?" he asked, teasingly.
"Just talking about how we're going to beat you," Greg shot back, climbing onto his broomstick.
"Hear, hear!" Harry crowed in support, taking off in to the air after Greg.
The game was an exciting eventful one. Both teams were well matched, save for Leo who was much more interested in flying close to the ground just to feel the wonderful sensation of his toes brushing against the grass than in catching the Quaffle.
Raphael was good at blocking the Quaffle, but not half as good as Greg was at scoring. Even Warren's rather apt attempts at trying to get the Quaffle from his brother and score, and Harry's average Keeper skills did not hinder their landslide victory of 160 points against the other team's 100 points.
As the sun begun to show signs of setting, they ended the vigorous game, both teams shaking hands, Leo preferring to throw his arms around Harry and hug him, even though it was his team that had lost. They helped Ginny gather the food basket, picnic mat and other things before heading back up to the house.
"Mummy, can we have Uncle Harry for dinner?" Leo asked his mother, as they walked towards the house.
"Have him over for dinner; we're not cannibals." Ginny told him, laughing, exchanging amused looks with Harry. The rest of the boys smirked.
Even Greg looked exceedingly cheerful after the rather gratifying Quidditch game after such a long time. His cheeks were flushed with color, his hair wet with sweat stuck straight up like mowed grass and his lips spread into a boyish grin. Ginny could not help but think, as she studied her son, that this was the first time in a while she had seen him look so much like any other normal eight year old boy.
TBCAuthor's note
Thank you for the overwhelming response. I have never gotten over twenty reviews for just a first chapter.
Thanks goes to my wonderful beta reader, 'Don'tletmegetme'!
It is inspired by Finding Neverland but NOT based on it. The ending and plot line will be very much different. I love that movie by the way and Johnny Depp in it.
Fanfiction website will remove my stories because of the song lyrics? Why? They did not do so to my other stories where I had song lyrics in them..
Harry DID not take a break from quidditch career just because Terry died – note that Terry died a year ago. Harry isn't married because he was too preoccupied with his quidditch career to think about settling down, now though….we'll just have to wait and see won't we?
Lol. You like the word 'befuddling'?
Am certainly taking your sound advice – you're absolutely right. My best stories are the ones I complete in as little as six chapters. I have already planned to complete this story in seven chapters at most. The problem with Werewolf's Wedding is that I have already written the ending but do not how to get from the chapter I have posted to the ending I have written.
If I told you the plot, what would be the fun in reading my story? Let me give you a hint though – the boys might not be the only ones Harry has to worry about when it comes to being accepted and being loved by that family.
The dialogue's bad? I'll try and improve.
REVIEW! REVIEW! REVIEW ADDICT NEEDS HER FIX!