Author's note: a chapter of memories, so no sense in putting memories in italics as I usually do. Instead, italics will be for a particular scene from Ginny's point of view, a scene that is divided along the chapter –don't we all love dead people talking? The guide in italics follows its chronological order, but memories don't, it's the topic (the "today", and how they live it) what's important here. Italics are also for thoughts and some terms, as usual.
The beginning of days
It's today. This night I'll be husband to the most beautiful... the most wonderful... the most brilliant witch in the whole world.
"You look like an Antipodean Opaleye in mating season" Charlie states, a hand on my shoulder.
Any other day, I'd be confused by the reference, then shrug and keep eating. Today, all I can do is smile.
"Thanks Bro"
The reflex in the mirror -long white tunic, red flower on the lapel- looks as if it wasn't me. I'm not me. I am hers already. So, as all things hers, I am perfect.
So I no longer think as the kid that goes to the dance with the worst tunic ever. I'm no longer the loser.
I don't think, either, about Percy's pompous congratulations, or the way George took me aside and asked me if I'm sure of tying someone to myself for life, alternating jokes about missed opportunities with so many other girls on the planet.
I picture Hermione, of her frown when she thinks, of her bright smile when she allows herself to feel, sometimes repressed when she doesn't want to laugh at one of my jokes (sometimes I make them just for that), of the determined and almost defiant way in which she raises her wand before an enemy, or her arguments before anyone willing (or not) to listen.
I know we'll be together tonight, and that single idea looks like all Christmas put together.
Not because of sex -though I can't stay cold when I think of carrying her to my bed.
Because I am the chosen one.
Chosen by her.
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I remember when everything came together. I had been aware for some time that something was happening, but I did not want to believe it... I mean, the two of them are so fucking loyal...
It was getting dark, we were in bed, and Harry had a hand on my belly, barely prominent, but where James was moving like crazy; I remember the laughter as if it echoed around me although it's probably an effect added afterwards. I was still smiling when he turned around, suddenly serious. I still remember his expression: anguish, grief; he was already absent as he apologized. Before I knew it, he was gone. He hadn't even changed from his pajamas.
Despite my presumed ignorance, it didn't take me a second to know exactly where he was. I didn't call my brother, or the ministry. I just apparated in the living room of my brother's house. Spotless, neat, lightened, full of books.
I think it was the first time I hated the know-it-all.
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It's nearly time. Soon, we'll be joined. The sleeves hover over the potion while I stir it once... twice... three times; I wait, holding my breath, until the colour in the wake of the whirlwind clears, as the recipe indicates. I breathe cautiously and the potion's power makes me close my eyes. More intoxicating than amortentia, indeed. I doubted the accuracy of the recipe. No longer. It's not convenient to try it yet, but I can hear, under the bubbling, the distinctive musical hiss that is to be expected at this stage.
"Hermione…"
"Ron…"
I smile at him and, putting behind my ear another lock of hair that hindered my vision, I go back to work. He approaches, so I eye him questioningly, just for a moment. He's better dressed than usual.
"Have you been at this all night?"
If I were really listening, I'd be on guard. I don't.
It's time for that phoenix feather, perhaps the most important ingredient. It's the end of the recipe. Then, there'll be nothing left to do, until we drink it. The mere idea makes my stomach bubble with joy and terror as the potion implodes in a mesmerizing show of Gryffindorish colours. Memories. Harry and I wrapped in red and gold scarves. Harry, Ron and I in the common room. Harry flying in another quidditch match, and I trying to breathe through the anxiety and fear of him falling again.
But the terror is there. How not. Through the magic in this quietly bubbling, innocent looking potion, we'll have to fight Voldemort again. Most of the time I won't even know it's an illusion.
"I still must…"
There is a bang; it startles me, so the ladle falls on the potion. Splash. I mix it hastily. Thanks Merlin its colour has not changed. The golden whirlwind is fading, but that's normal.
"This is delicate, Ron!"
"That's the only thing that matters to you!"
"It'll influence Harry's system for a lifetime! And mine! I have to pay attention!"
"The Ministry staff is there precisely for that! And how the hell did they let you concoct it yourself?!
"No one is to handle my ÉmPathós, except me!
He's livid. Literally. Pale to the lips. Freckles stand out like porridge and milk. I dry my hands on my dress, and for some reason he looks horrified. Looking down I notice the elegant attire Fleur stuffed me in. Attire. Elegant. Oh, Merlin, I missed the date!
As I try to decide how to fix this, Ron seems to notice that only now I realized. He's insightful at the worst possible times.
"Save it," he cuts.
Ron leaves like an exhalation, and I look at the empty door for three seconds before I dare sigh. I have barely thought the question: "What now?", when he comes back, leaves something next to me, and leaves again, without a comment or even a stare. It's a leather bag. I look at the door, at the potion, and since there's nothing left to do to this one, I reach for the package carefully. It doesn't seem to bite. When I turn it upside down, a ring falls on the table.
A minute passes... two... until I sigh again.
"Oh, Ron..."
I can't say it's entirely unexpected. But thankfully I didn't go to the date: I don't know how he'd take this reaction. Years of being together, and it's not a "yes" what immediately rises to my lips. I'm the worst friend ever, for hesitating. At the end, I know I'll take the ring. As if it were my destiny. As if someone had already decided it for me, without asking. What am I supposed to do with this?
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From where I was, I could hear sobs and protests. She was asking him to leave. She was apologizing for alarming him. Still neither of them controlled what reached the other through the connection they shared. The distress she was in had summoned him. Just like that.
Of course I blamed them. Irrational? Who cares?
Just then I realized how little I had understood, how lightly I had taken the fucking potion and the damn bracelet, in my stupidity, in my faith in my husband's loyalty, in my saviour of the magical world.
Only then, in my brother's place, listening to her sobs and to the soothing murmurs of my man, I started to suspect the price I was going to pay for it, and it was terrifying.
He had felt her cry from the other side of town, and had come.
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The time is now. I don't know what for. If the mere thought of Hermione vowing eternal love to Ron is this shocking to me, why can't I find a reason? There's nothing, as far as I remember, that would give me this sense of betrayal and unfitness. All I can think of, is the bond, messing with my brain. So I feel guilt, too. As if I needed more distraction. And yet, even as I stand by Ron, I don't know if I'll be able to stand the sight of my partner…
… so perfect, with that wide smile that I remember from our fourth year, before all went so terribly wrong. Hermione is so incredibly beautiful. Despite her hair, all tamed over her shoulders –it's wild, why don't people get it's wild, like her? -. Despite the makeup, and the perfectly manicured nails around the flowers –I've seen those nails broken and filled with dirt, around her wand, I've seen it and I've felt ready to fall on my knees, in awe, for she's a power of nature, with that wand-. The dress is slightly too white for her skin. Beige looks better on her. Beige, and silk. But of course, it's a wedding.
A wedding.
And before I lose control, I turn my eyes from the witch as I straighten my hold on our empathy -she must feel nothing of this-. I turn to Ron, who's positively dumbfounded, hanging from the movement of her lips as she plays her role. I doubt he hears a word. I hear them, all. And I don't know what I feel, but it burns.
We all surround them: Charlie, Bill, Percy, George, Arthur... and our respective wives –for those who have them...- Men –it's tradition- have their wands at the ready, to make of those, the last words she pronounces as a single woman -and all I can remember, is how Hermione frowned upon reading about this, protesting against sexism in traditional ceremonies of all worlds-. And I think I can't. I think that magic bow is going to miss mine. Suddenly I can't feel anything inside me, but rejection, fear, a wish to go hide in my closet under the stairs, as if Voldemort was out there again, and I had to face him without her.
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It's done. How afraid I was of this, and it's behind me already. I don't know if I did wrong, but as I feel James move under my skin, I know I had a very powerful reason to put her out of reach.
That doesn't mean I'm proud of this show... And again, it wasn't entirely my doing... Who takes the Vote these days?! I swear I never wanted to make it a matter of life or death. An ordinary marriage should have sufficed.
Hermione says it wouldn't. She says that with anything less, her Bond to Harry would take precedence. Of course she didn't get that it was not bonding magic what I was worried about, but passion, common to mortals, muggles, magicians and rats. That she took the time, the effort and the considerable discomfort to explain it in person to me –wife to the person to whom she's bonded- does not alleviate the feeling of guilt. I guess I have no right to be upset now.
I begged my brother not to take the Vow, just to hear him support tradition as he never did before –but I know it was his lack of surety, speaking-. My mother was simply amused that I would take it so seriously. My dad didn't care. Only Harry seemed to take my words seriously, so seriously that he couldn't really discuss it, and I didn't like it, at all.
So, even if it was my wand what made her pronounce the final word, I kept Harry from playing a role. Maybe I was trying to sabotage the rite, though I knew it wouldn't even attenuate the magic behind. It just felt wrong. His very presence here was an anomaly.
A whisper was enough. My husband didn't even turn around, as if he was waiting for it all the time. I don't know what to feel about it. I'd love to believe that it was my whisper what kept him from following the rules, but it was probably because of her.
How hypocritical of me, giving Ron's relationship a boost, and then not wanting Harry to help tie down his partner.
But now everything should be fine... right? Now, everything will be as it should have been from the beginning. Ron and Hermione, Harry and me. If there is a Big Designer, I know this was his plan. I just know.
Pity that our children can't marry, being cousins and all.
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My moment has arrived. As I try to tame my hair, hearing Ginny hum downstairs, I wonder why I think about this in those terms: my moment. It feels more of a prophecy than the sphere I held in the Department of Mysteries.
The moment I'm done buttoning, the clothes embraces my skin, fitting perfectly. I'd be terrified if Hermione hadn't explained it to me and insisted that I tried it when we got it. It's a special uniform, versatile, nearly alive. It cleans and repairs itself. We'll need it. Three days of uninterrupted rite, reliving nightmares... it'd be embarrassing and much more unpleasant without this. Magic never ceases to amaze me.
I'm not nervous. I don't understand how the Ceremony can be a source of anxiety. Nothing will change. We will not –cannot- be more than we are now -friends, that is-. We'll only get a private line, keeping us linked through any physical space. Useful in battle.
And fitting, just as these clothes.
I can't stop smiling. Ginny would say my eyes shine. And she wouldn't have a clue.
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The funny thing is that until then I hadn't thought of the different facets of loyalty. Until then, it had only seemed incredible to me, to the point of ridicule, that Harry would even kiss someone else, however powerful the connection between partners was and even though I had also heard how frequent it was, among them, and despite prohibitions, to become lovers. Of course, I knew that Harry had been alone with Hermione for months, and that if something had happened between them, he wouldn't have been able to hide those memories from me. So why would I fear their being aware of each other's distress? Why would I complain that the brightest witch of our age covered his back, kept him alive for me?
"Stupid, stupid" was a mantra in my mind, while James, startled by the apparition he wasn't used to, at all, rebelled inside of me.
James, our son.
Harry's son. Harry, who would never let a child of him grow up, like him, without a father; who would never leave us alone. Who would never even hug another woman in a compromising way. Least of all, she who had been a sister to him for a decade, and who had been, for too long, a girlfriend to his best friend.
As if Harry needed to take her to bed to love her with all his heart.
I realized, with all the certainty of a woman, a lover and a mother, that I could give him everything I had, be the best of lovers and give birth to dozens of his children, and I'd never have his whole heart. I realized that there was only one reason why I had what I had: him as a husband, my son. And that one reason was that Hermione allowed it.
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Finally, today. The beginning of days. Magic will test us and judge us worthy. I'm scared? Nah Rather, anxious. If my hands tremble when I fasten the last buttons, it's anxiety. I didn't stop having breakfast, or sleeping, but now I'm impatient to be there. I barely pause in front of the mirror, checking that my hair remains magically smoothed, and the makeup, subtle and elegant, and professional. We'll still be a disaster on the morning of the graduation ceremony, within three days.
A feeling of green hope and golden courage forms a pit in my stomach. Calm happiness. I always thought that I'd feel something like this on my wedding day, knowing that after the ceremony I would love my boyfriend no more for becoming a husband, and at the same time, knowing that the ceremony meant everything. Changed everything.
It could have something to do with the ancient rites. I was ecstatic to read about them, almost intoxicated by the runes and the delicate web of power in this bond. Ties so intimate that they had ended up being uncomfortable to the spouses, long before other spells gave the possibility of breaking, of divorce. Unearthed by the Force for their usefulness in battle. It seemed poetic that they had been forgotten until now. I don't like prophecy, but literary speaking, I do like fate.
I can almost see his hands holding the chalice. Will you understand the symbolism when your knife penetrates my skin to pour my blood into the chalice? I know what your blood tastes like. I've been bathed in it.
I take a deep breath and apparate at the meeting point, about five minutes ahead of time.
Harry's already there. He smiles at me, without a hint of solemnity. I smile at him. We are back at Hogwarts, exams are over and we are simply spending another beautiful summer afternoon by the lake. So I grab his arm. It's as good a day as any, to relive hell.
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"I'm so killing your brother," Harry stated.
If he had looked at me, he'd have noticed.
But he didn't. Instead, despite her hands pushing him, urging him to leave, to come back to me, he hugged her as if his life relied on it. He rubbed her back. He tangled his fingers in her indomitable hair. And she rested her forehead on his shoulder, half surrendering. There was nothing compromising in the gesture itself.
It was at that moment that I decided that I had to do something about it. Not when I was introduced to Hermione's alleged sister –though, if there's anything we Weasleys know about, it's genetics-. Not when I saw him take his oath as auror and partner, and take her hand, with that smile that was only hers.
There.
And forbidding she set foot in my house for that month, only gave me enough time to take final measures.
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"Look, mom, she speaks!"
"How nice of her, sweetie" Miss Granger answered, distracted.
"She says she likes hamburguers. Can we buy one for her, dad? Can we?"
"Muggles won't allow it" Marv intervened, eyes on the serpent.
"Dear, adults are talking" was Mr Granger's only comment.
Adults had ignored Marv again. Duham started to suspect they couldn't hear him. Without losing a bit of her ever-present emotion, she turned to the glass.
"They say animals don't speak" she hissed.
"Most humans aren't very smart" the creature answered, and Duham applauded, thrilled. "Will you bring me a mouse?"
Duham didn't like the idea of hunting a rodent. She wasn't sure of having seen one, ever. Mom said they were dirty.
"Can we summon one, Marv?"
"I'm sure we can" he commented, eyes shining in delight.
(She had recently learned that word. She also knew that Marv didn't want his delight to be so obvious, and was in fact trying to look neutral. She always knew a lot of things, certainly more than adults expected her too.)
So Duham did what Marv had taught her to: she closed her eyes and extended what Marv called "magic", turning it into cheese smell. It took a second, but then screams started to come from all points, as the ladies noticed the afflux of pests.
The first mouse arriving was too tiny. Duham leant and looked into his eyes.
"Old-salt-milk" the mouse asked, moving his little nose.
She produced some cheese for him. In truth, she thought he wasn't smart at all, but she hesitated as she looked through the glass. The serpent couldn't see him from that angle. The mouse wasn't to blame for not being smart.
"Feed her" Marv ordered, persuasive; his voice sounded excited, so Duham turned her eyes to him and to the serpent, again, and to the mouse.
Duham didn't like the idea of throwing the little mouse to the serpent. The little girl looked at the half dozen other mice that had responded to her bait. She was almost dizzy. She didn't like this, she didn't. She couldn't choose which one was to disappear in his new friend's mandible.
"It smells like mouse" the serpent hissed.
"Hunger" a hairy animal screamed under the chitchat and the isolated screams of the crowd.
"Feed her" Marv ordered once again, red, almost hypnotic eyes shining on the girl. "That's the rule" he added, persuasive, "the weak ones are prey to the strong ones".
"But there's a glass" was her excuse.
"Vanish it, then. A small piece should be enough"
Now she was a bit disgusted, seeing the growing crowd of grey dirty fur undulate, excited by the smell. When she produced another piece of cheese, war started, making her step back at the sight of blood. She had the feeling that the source of that blood was her smallest and more recent friend.
"Aren't we friends?" Marv asked, emotionless.
Duham nodded. He was his best friend, as far as she knew. The one beside her at all times, even after bedtime. Telling her stories and inventing new games, just for her. Keeping the bullies of day-care at bay. Her protector.
"Can't you trust me?"
Duham nodded again, but she swallowed.
"Feed her"
The kid couldn't keep her eyes from the old mouse fighting in the air, hanging from his tail held by an invisible extremity, until the serpent reached him, biting until said tail disappeared into her mouth. She still looked at the serpent, transferring to her all the disgust she had felt towards the crowd of mice, when she felt Marv's hand on her shoulder, then on her hair. She would be worried about him messing her hair –it was hard enough to tame, mom said-, but with him things didn't work like that.
"You have so much talent, Duham" he praised, voice full of ambition. "I expect great things of you. Now, another one" he gasped, thrilled.
Duham looked around, half wondering how come that adults didn't notice a thing. Then Marv added.
"Let it be the one that came first".
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Preview:
An auror passes by him on his way to a pensieve; in the one next to it, an old woman, shaken by grief, pours threads of blue–silver one after another. Someone just disappeared into a third pensieve. White ones, without ornaments, though different in design. Seven... eight... Too many. Goosebumps. There aren't all the corresponding portraits yet, but in front of each pensieve there is a (white) sign with the name of the deceased.
All that white looks great in the reddish wood room, reminiscent of blood.
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Author's Note:
So? Moral? Kids, don't let your own kids alone as you solve your love dramas, serious as those might seem. They could very well meet a psychopath.
Was the scene in italics too confusing, divided as it is?
Do you hate Ginny too much?
What do you think about Harry's conflict?
I just spent 5 hours just translating the chapter, not to speak about the hours I spent writing it. Please, let me know what you thought of the result. Below there's a box for reviews. Imagine that it's a little hole in my heart, and fill it up.