Ginny cursed and kicked the toilet with a sneakered foot. She had always hated this tiny bathroom, but it was the only one in the apartment. She could swear the room was shrinking. Every few seconds she glanced down at the small, corked glass vial in her hand, wishing it would hurry up and change. She curled and uncurled her toes, cracked her knuckles, dropped her head back against the cold, tiled wall behind the bathtub. She nearly dropped the vial when she felt the glass heating up, not from the temperature but from the shock of the sudden change. Quickly she pulled herself out of the bathtub and read the faded label sitting on the top of the toilet.
If it be the potion's blue, in the womb a child shall grow for you. But if it's red the potion be, in nine months no baby there'll be. If the potion turns purple, seek medical consul.
Ginny scoffed at the bad poetry and looked at the bottle on the counter. She was sure that if it was possible, every one of her internal organs had just dissolved. The potion was now a shimmering shade of cornflower blue. She clutched her stomach, both because of the thought of a child in there, and because of a sudden bout of nausea that was, although certainly brought upon by the child, decidedly not morning sickness. Before she knew it, her eyes were filling with tears. Her nose started running, and all she could do was sniffle and try to hold it back because she'd used the last of the toilet paper. This realization brought more tears, and once again she sunk into the chilly bathtub. What would everyone say? What would her parents think? An unwed mother at 19! What would Harry think? Ginny had never broached the subject of kids with him. She assumed he wanted them someday; that always seemed like something he'd want. But she was sure that now, in the peak of his success as an Auror-slash-Quidditch player, he would not want a mini Harry scampering around. An abortion, for her, was out of the question. Even if she weren't entirely prepared for a child now, she would after all have nine months to ready herself. And she was good with kids, she loved them. She wiped her eyes and nose on the hand towel, reminding herself to wash it later. When she had her wand and was mentally capable of performing spells.
Outside the bathroom she heard the soft click of the front door shutting, and the sounds of Harry taking off his coat and shoes. He would be expecting her to go out and meet him, like she did every day. She couldn't let him think something was up yet, so she quickly splashed some water on her face and walked out of the bathroom, drying her face with a clean facecloth.
"Hey, sweetie." She stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "How was work?" Harry shrugged. He looked weary.
"We thought we had him this time. We had a good lead, but someone fucked everything up. Wrote down the details wrong, so we ended up fifty kilometres away from the Death Eater meeting. Problem is, we didn't know which way it was. Why's your face all wet?" Harry asked, suddenly noticing the damp facecloth in her left hand.
"Oh, it was nothing… I was just… you know, playing with makeup. Girly things. I couldn't think of a spell to get it off," she chuckled. "It looked rather horrid, actually. I don't think I'm cut out for the whole transvestite look. Anyway, had to get it off the Muggle way. A bit hard on my skin actually, took a lot of scrubbing to get it all."
"Mm. So what's for dinner, Ginner?" Ginny clenched her teeth as she smiled.
"Nothing, if you keep on calling me Ginner…" She warned. Harry laughed.
"Sorry. It just suits you so much. You just look like a Ginner. I can't help it, babe. Anyway, I really feel like spaghetti and meatballs. Think you can rustle some up?" Harry ruffled her orange-red curls, stirring up the frizz Ginny had carefully managed to hide from him.
"Well, I doubt it, seeing as I don't cook. Remember? We've been over this countless times. I'm not my mother, Har. I can't cook anything past scrambled eggs. So unless you're in the mood for eggs on toast, I recommend going out for takeout." Harry frowned.
"If you can't cook, what have you been feeding me?" Ginny raised one eyebrow, a skill she had perfected way back in her fourth year (it really came in handy when she was dating Michael Corner, for some reason).
"Some days I can be bothered to get something ready for you. There's a nice place not too far from here I go to sometimes. They serve frozen meals. You just heat them and serve them." Harry nodded and ruffled her hair again.
"Why don't you go get some of those, and I'll hold down the fort?" Ginny sighed.
"I'd rather not. I've already eaten and there's a ton of stuff I still want to do tonight."
"Come on, Ginny. I work, I provide for both of us and you sit around on your ass all day and you can't even be bothered to do this one little thing for me?" Ginny scratched her freckled nose and sighed.
"It's useless arguing with you, Harry. Even though I know you're wrong." She muttered the last part very quietly. Best not provoke him. She buttoned her olive-coloured coat and slipped a pair of mittens into her pocket, just in case. It was only November, but so far there had been some very chilly, windy days.
"And hurry back! I'm hungry!" She heard as she shut the front door. In the hall, she leaned against the wall and clenched her hands into fists, trying with all her might not to scream.
"Are- are you alright there, deary?" Ginny opened her eyes. The old woman who lived in the apartment across from Harry and Ginny was peering up at Ginny.
"Oh, um, I'm… I'm fine." She collected herself. "I'm fine." She nodded, and the old woman walked ahead, leaving a smell of cats and old clothes in the air.