There and Back Again Lane
Ch. 3 – Come on Home
---(Ginny's POV)---
I'm panicking, in no fit state to confront Harry about anything. Desperate to change alone, I place Harry's clothes on the chair outside and place the first tie I find on top. Calm down, I tell myself as I sit on the edge of the bed. Everything will be fine. I glower at my clothes in the armoire. Why not work clothes? But that would let Harry down – we're a couple, both of us might as well look like berks – and Hermione would kill me. It's to be the complete girly-girl treatment: light green silk dress, low-heeled shoes, and a little make-up and scent. Actually, I clean up pretty well.
This little preening session before the mirror is rudely interrupted by an obnoxious wee git of a bird tapping on the window. I do love Pigwidgeon, but I wouldn't be surprised if he's part snidget. He bears a letter from Hermione. Ringing this morning wasn't enough. The Muggle-born witch who received the maximum possible number of OWLs and NEWTs has probably committed one of the more obvious breaches of wizarding secrecy, but then maybe Pig was blown off course.
Dear Ginny,
I hope this letter finds you well and before you depart Edinburgh. I apologise for writing by regular post, but the telephone lines were down this evening.
We will likely be a little late to the meeting tomorrow afternoon, say three o'clock, as I've a meeting with the Ministry in the morning, though I'm certain you will probably enjoy reacquainting yourself with London.
I don't know exactly how to write this without being direct: have you told him yet? Now that you are engaged it is essential that he is aware into what sort of situation he is entering. Also, there is the concern regarding the effect such a revelation will have on his treatment. The staff on the fourth floor are worried that regression or worse might result. Please, I beg you, consider what you are doing to the both of you.
Probably you think I'm over-stepping the bounds of friendship or family by making writing these things, but I do understand what you are going through. Ron and I lost him that night as well. Though we knew slightly more than you, we were sworn to secrecy for both /i his i and your benefit. It's highly improbable he will ever been the man he was or could have become should he recover.
I'm so sorry and hope you understand.
Love,
HermioneIt takes all my strength not to demonstrate my vast knowledge of obscenities at the loudest possible volume. Pig, usually so obtuse in such matters, senses my fury and flutters to rest on the armoire. I'm tempted to append my response to the end of her letter.
Hermione,
Bugger off.
–Ginny
I hear Harry getting ready just outside and decide to leave my answer for when we get to London. Pig gets an owl treat before I usher him out the window. Time to face reality. I take my rarely-used mobile to explain my foul mood.
---(Harry's POV)---
Ginny leaves the bathroom for the bedroom as I toss Hedwig's rubbish into the bin. My black suit's hanging from a chair in the hallway, not very stylish but formal, a red tie draped on top. I would have thought my Uni tie would have been more appropriate to display me as a proper prospective brother-in-law, but I'm too nervous to argue. And while shaving goes without severing a blood vessel, my hair still won't stay down. It's been a two year battle. I'm tempted to put styling product in my hair, but it makes Ginny sneeze. So I admit defeat, get dressed, and ensure there's at least some shine on my shoes.
She emerges from the bedroom a radiant vision but with a scowl that curdles my blood. I ask her what's wrong but she just waves off the question. Paper is crumpled in one hand and her mobile is being crushed by the other. "Hermione sends her love," she grunts finally. Her face is hard, her eyes caustic when she looks at me. Then she shakes her head, cradling it in her other hand inadvertently hitting herself with the mobile. "Damn it."
"You look beautiful," I declare, pulling her gently into an embrace, "though clumsy." I kiss where she struck herself and hear her giggle. I adore the feel of the cool green silk as it flows over her soft skin. Her scent enchants me, the gentle perfume of lilies. She relaxes briefly in my arms before prompting me towards the suitcases and the door while she grabs Hedwig's cage.
The cabbie isn't impressed by our avian accompaniment but is professional enough to attempt disguising it. I give him a twenty-percent gratuity when we reach Waverley brightening his mood somewhat. I look in the shops in the station lounge and think about buying a third bottle of whisky for the trip.
I don't know what it is, but every time I go south by train, less so when I went to see Ginny, I feel miserable. London's a beautiful city, and I love it when I'm there, but the trip always shatters my nerves. Ginny's strangely tetchy today as well. Her family can't be that bad, can it? I wish I'd bought three bottles – I could murder at least half a bottle right now.
I've never seen her so anxious. She's not having second thoughts, is she? Sod it. I know of a decent whisky seller in the City and buy them a fresh bottle when we get to London.
---(Ginny's POV)---
Thank Merlin, he's opened the bottle. I thrust out my empty beaker of tea and don't let him stop pouring until it's near the brim. What was I thinking? I hold the beaker out for another treble. I can't look at him except by sidelong glances, even though the speeding countryside along with too swiftly consumed liquor is making me ill. He's gazing intently at the bottle when he isn't casting nervous looks at my face. Probably wondering why he's engaged to a nervous lunatic.
Sweet sodding hell. I wonder if I hit my head hard enough against the window I'll knock myself out. Damn, he's capped the bottle.
---(Harry's POV)---
The cabin is spinning a bit too quick for my taste. I reach out and grab her hand, hoping that will stabilise me somewhat. She gifts me with a stunned, pitying grimace, but I don't let go. Her hand is the only thing stopping the cabin from revolving in a thousand directions.
---(Ginny's POV)---
I feel his hand in mine and my breathing becomes deeper. This peaceful feeling is contrasting brutally with the alcohol so instead of a beaming smile I manage a squeamish grin. Bollocks. But he doesn't let go. The sickness-inducing countryside is forgotten as I slump back into my seat, clutching his hand tightly. It's OK, I tell myself, they won't, we won't bugger this up. I look at Harry; he's staring fixedly at the wall opposite, his face slightly paler than normal. Why do I let this boy make my life all pear-shaped?
Because you love him, you daft git. And I feel a smile flow across my face as I fall asleep on his arm.
---(Harry's POV)---
One of these days I'll have to find out her secret of falling asleep on trains. I always have this odd fear something will attack me.
I hope her recent relaxed state isn't entirely owing to the two full beakers of whisky. It's rare to see her drink so much. I have a shufti at the letter Ginny's sister-in-law, Hermione, sent us. Unfortunately, it's completely unintelligible as the small, neat handwriting shifts and curls around the parchment in my alcohol haze. The wall is quite interesting, isn't it?
---(Ginny's POV)---
I wake thirty minutes later, my mind still well behind an amber curtain. A surreptitiously cast anti-inebriation charm later, and the world's just a sepia wash away from perfect clarity. Harry's nodded off, well mostly. The letter from Hermione's in his hands. He's too drunk to read it, he won't remember if he did. I can't even convince myself now. A little legerdemain and the letter's in my purse. He's trying vainly to keep his eyes open. The best time to ask some questions.
"Harry?" I whisper hesitatingly.
"Mm?"
"Did you read the letter?"
He shakes his head. "Couldn't."
A sigh escapes me. Then, I recall vaguely something he said about how his previous girlfriend at that pub two years ago.
"Why did Siobhan break it off?" Hide the quaver in your voice, Ginny.
He snickered. Maybe he's more awake than I thought. "Coffee pot," he muttered. "Bloody carafe exploded, cut my hand. Said I was a menace." He drifts off again. "Said I had nightmares, too."
While slightly jealous that I wasn't the catalyst to his recovery, it at least explained his reaction to the toaster. "Has something like that happened before?" I continued. "Other than that toaster. Anything odd?"
"Dunno," he mumbles. He laughs again. "There was that time in a pub, when these lads started to get rough. Pint glasses bursting, the sods," he chuckled. "Never bothered us again."
"Do you remember anything before," calm, Ginny, "before the car crash?"
"Mm?"
"Parents, school?"
"Football." And the bastard grins. Men. It's tempting to hex him, but in his present state half the fun would be lost. What if he'd said, "Quidditch"?
Who needs a drink? But the sight of the whisky bottle sickens me now. I take it from his hand and put it back in the carrier bag.
The train arrives at King's Cross on time, five hours ahead of Hermione's revised schedule. Nudging Harry awake, I hand him a bottle of water and a pair of paracetamol tablets. He moans his thanks and kisses my cheek We collect our luggage and Hedwig, cabbing it to the hotel. Thankfully, Hermione's made a special arrangement through the Ministry allowing us to keep Hedwig en suite. Even after two years of living amongst Muggles I forget such things.
I still haven't told him. There's enough residual effects of the whisky to dull the panic to a vague anxiety. I tell him we've a few hours before we're to meet the family. Harry's taking things in stride, though that may be because his head's still careering from the voyage. Gryffindor, my arse. If I can't tell the man I love I'm a witch by the date of the wedding, what kind of marriage would it be? I know it's customary to inform the Muggle-to-be-married after when the joint marriage license/magical secrecy contract has been signed, but this is a special case.
As we pass the British Library en route to the hotel, I suggest returning there. He accepts even though I know he would either prefer to sleep off the drink or reacquaint himself with the local music shops. "A little culture would be good," he replies with an honest smile. Instead, we end up shagging ourselves senseless, our mutual panic along with the lingering drink proving to be an irresistible aphrodisiac, much to Hedwig's dismay. But with this pleasure comes pain: what if this is the last time, if when he finds out I've lied all this time he buggers off to who knows where, if he forsakes me at the altar, forever? The dam and dikes I've built to withstand the thought of his loss ever since I was a little girl burst. I wail horribly as I lay upon him: there can be no return to some antediluvian paradise. He embraces me tightly, kissing my face, pleading to know what's wrong. But I can't tell him, can't bear to lose him.
And that's what's most wrong.
---(Harry's POV)---
She begins to shake against me. I remember the first time we had sex, she started trembling awkwardly. Worried that I was somehow injuring her, I opened my eyes and look at her. Her face was beet-red, eyes brimming with tears, her hand over her mouth like an embarrassed schoolgirl, and the ends of her lips threatening to reach her ears. "What's wrong?" I asked. She completely lost it. I've never heard anyone laugh so hard in my life. "You should see your face," she managed finally in the brief pauses between bursts of laughter. So I started pulling faces like a schoolboy. I doubt I've ever had such a maddeningly enjoyable time in my life. Still, she occasionally giggles afterward. But as I feel the tears burning on my neck and shoulder, there's no doubt she's crying. I hold her tightly, entreating her to tell me what's wrong. She won't say but cries desperately, squeezes me as if she's drowning, begging me between sobs not to let go. I can't, I won't.
So what's wrong?