A/N: Yes. I am fully aware that Ginny's name is Ginevra, not Virginia. I still think this song is a decent interpretation of how Harry sees his wife (also aware that it's clichéd as all hell, but hey *shrug* it's a vibe).
"She never compromises, loves babies and surprises
Wears high-heels when she exercises
Ain't that beautiful?
Meet Virginia"
"Meet Virginia" – Train
The second floor of the Ministry was abuzz with activity. Through the air soared a fleet of lilac memos, sometimes swooping gracefully around another, at times colliding clumsily. On the floor an ever-undulating throng of people rushed to and fro, stopping in a cubicle here and there, at times yelling over one another to be heard. It was a comforting, consistent chaos, and Harry Potter sat in the eye of the storm.
He'd forgone an office in the traditional sense, instead choosing a cubicle at the very center of the madness that was the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, preferring to immerse himself as fully as was possible into the goings on. His ear was ever to the floor, he scarcely missed the content of a memo, even if it were addressed to one of his colleagues, and unlike his superior who had himself been closeted away in a remote office which was only accessible through a rather intimidating hallway (meant, of course, to separate the wheat from the chaff whom he hoped to never engage with), Harry made himself accessible to most any request, any question, all inquiries. In a word: he was available.
It'd paid in dividends: he often was abreast of new investigations when only rumours had been spread about crimes. At times it felt as though it cost him something: he was far more familiar with Great Britain's criminal element than his wife was comfortable with, sometimes even being greeted on the street by suspicious looking witches and wizards while out with his family in Diagon Alley, but the Auror Potter new that this army of the downtrodden, those he felt privileged to know as his informants, were not a bad sort. They often presented themselves on the second floor with leads and information on cases, sometimes in exchange for him calling a house-elf to his desk with a small meal or a hot kettle to enjoy. It was payment enough. That, and purging the criminal underbelly that still thrived in the less populated streets off of Diagon Alley, not to mention Knocturn Alley.
The world had quieted, somewhat, since the teenagers had returned to school. Petty thefts were down. He found himself dragging recalcitrant youngsters to their mothers' doors far less often—in fact, not at all— since September 1st. So, as it neared noon, on a rather average day, he occupied himself with the freedom to drift, mindlessly, as he so seldom got to do, just like he might have once as a student in History of Magic lessons.
His creased brown boots were crossed carelessly at the ankle, supported on his desk as he leaned back as far as his office chair would allow, staring aimlessly at the memos flying overhead.
It'd not been long since he'd made the visit to Waldweirness with his friend. Perhaps only a week or more. Since the visit, he'd tried to cut down his hours. It was a bit in vain, but he'd accomplished an afternoon or two of showing up back at Grimmauld Place before Ginny had expected him home, his arms laden with take-out and an aroma of curries clinging to his official robes. She'd been pleased, though rather than assuaging her desire to see him, it made his witch all the more desirous that he owl-in for a week or two off.
It would seem that the yearning to see the Spanish coast could not be assuaged by excellent lamb saag and a night off from cooking.
Though he hated to admit it, he could, on a deeper level, understand that, he supposed. It'd been years since he'd had his wife to himself, and though he didn't for a moment resent his sons over their constant need for her, he was only a man. He was only a man who was utterly besotted with his beautiful wife. What earthly man wouldn't do his damndest to please a woman like Ginny Potter?
Quite unbeknownst to him, he was grinning a stupid grin to himself as he contemplated his bride. His hands slid up, over his face, past his glasses, and scratched languidly at his scalp while his mind was otherwise occupied, ruffling his messy hair further in consequence. They settled at the back of his head, fingers interlaced.
The night before had been one of the evenings he'd called off early. He'd stopped off for a roast dinner at a local pub, carting home polystyrene boxes filled with meat, potatoes, and gravy, only to be chastised for forgetting a side of veg.
He chuckled in remembrance. Wasn't a potato a vegetable? He'd asked.
Ginny's lips had puckered and her hands settled about her hips, reminiscent of her mother. (Though he'd never admit to it, even under torture).
"James needs something green, Harry. Or if not green, at least something not beige."
He'd shrugged apologetically and had gone about setting the paper bags down on the dinner table, wrangling the toddler into his arms and settling him handily into the tall toddler chair Arthur had made for him. Ginny returned to the stove and retrieved a bag of frozen peas from the icebox, preparing a pot to boil over the cooker to correct her husband's mistake.
"Could you put those under a warming charm, please?" she'd directed from over her shoulder.
"On it," he said while motioning over the boxes with his wand as he pulled each from the bag. "Has Al been fed?"
"No, he's down for a nap. You know him, he won't eat for a bit after he wakes up, and if I don't eat something I won't have any milk for him anyway." She sighed in exhaustion, resting a hip on the counter as the peas boiled for a moment, before draining them and depositing them into a serving dish, garnished with butter, pepper, and salt.
"Here, let me fix Jamie's plate," Harry offered, reaching a hand out to receive the peas from her.
He made short work of placing a small bit of everything into the tiny hollows of the muggle plastic child plate he'd gotten for the boy. James refused any food that was sullied by touching another food adjacent to it.
While he was cutting the slice of roast into manageable pieces, he heard yet another put-upon sigh from his wife, and he raised worried green eyes to observe her, as she ladled gravy onto her own roast and potatoes.
"Everything alright, Gin?"
Under normal circumstances, he may have expected a "Yes, everything's fine," or a more reassuring account of something specific to her day that had her restless, but this evening his vibrant wife sagged in her chair, not meeting his eyes with her own, and rolled the peas she had just taken care to prepare around the plate with the tines of her fork, making tracks through the gravy.
"Just tired, Har." She said with a tiny sneer at her plate, her lips thin and her mouth twisted bitterly.
Ginny never called him that. Something was wrong. Harry groaned inwardly and desperately wanted to rub at his eyes, aching after a day of work, but he abstained, instead setting his fork down and pushing his own plate to the side, untouched. He rested one elbow on the table so his hand could cradle his chin, considering her in silence.
It was a full minute before she finally looked up at him.
"What can I do for you, sweetheart?" He asked, his voice gentle. "How can I make it better?"
Her face half crumpled but her resolve seemed not to. "Nothing's wrong, Harry. Eat your roast."
His hand banged down from where it had supported his head, causing James to look up from where he'd been, with limited success, ferrying small bits of roast to the general area of his mouth. "That's shite. That's shite and you know it. What's wrong?"
Ginny's lips quivered a moment, "I hate being here... I hate seeing the same thing every day. There's not even enough sky here..."
"You're not a prisoner of the house, Gin. I can take the boys to the creche anytime, and you can go visit with your mum..." he looked at her, hoping she'd meet his gaze, but she was too downtrodden. "You could owl Angelina, go flying? We can set it up for you, any day you like, I swear—"
She heaved a sigh. "I don't want to be ungrateful, Harry."
"I'd never think you were being ungrateful!"
"I need something different. I need something really really beautiful, just for a short while," she intoned, scrubbing both hands up and down her face. "I need to not have grabby..."
She stopped short, looking miserable.
"Go on."
"I need to not have grabby baby hands touching me every effing second... I just want a break." Her lips trembled, "I love Albus, Harry—you know I love Albus," she pleaded, looking like she was ready to sob.
Harry reached across the table and grasped one of the hands rubbing her face raw, pulling it down to the table in his. "Look at me, Gin."
She finally did. Her brown eyes were swimming with tears.
Her husband took a deep breath, "I know you love Albus. I know you love James. And I also know you haven't had one moment where either one of them wasn't demanding things from you for the past three years, especially while on maternity leave,"
It was as if his words had finally given her permission to cry openly, and she did. Finally, not obstructing his view of her lovely face. His heart broke for her.
"So, I'm going to talk to Hermione—and I'm going to give her the chance she's been asking for to spend some time with James. And we're going to go to Molly this weekend, and we're going to ask her to take Al for a week—and then I'm going to book us that vacation for Ibiza on the earliest portkey I can find,"
Ginny gasped, looking half over the moon, and half regretful, "Harry, don't do this because—"
"No, Gin. It's not because you forced my hand. This has gone on long enough. I've been selfish—"
"No you haven't!"
"Please, Gin," He begged, holding up a hand, "just let me finish, alright?" She nodded, mutely. "Work is a monster, as always, but that's not really an excuse, is it? I have a whole ruddy month of time off banked. Mind you, I can't take a whole month, but... well..."
"You were worried about the boys..."
"Yeah," he said, feeling somewhat lame. He rubbed the back of his neck in agitation. "You know I've had reservations about Hermione taking James, and I hate to burden your mum..."
"I can't speak for Mum, though I doubt she considers it a burden," Ginny said, her lips turning up in a wry smile. "I understand your concerns about Hermione... but how will we know—Hell, how will she know if she can handle it, unless we give her a shot?"
His lips twisted in almost a grimace. "She begged me for a chance last week, when I saw her, did you know that?"
"How would I know what you don't tell me?"
"I dunno... I just... I wanted to give it more thought, but I waited too long anyway. It's beyond time for us to go on holiday, and if Hermione really wants to take this one," he said, ruffling the small boy's already messy auburn hair, "she'll learn what she's in for. Won't she, Jamie?"
James grinned, his tiny teeth smeared with green peas.
Ginny smiled indulgently. "At least one of us has an appetite."
"Yeah, he's a good eater, just like your Uncles, aren't you." James smacked his lips loudly in response.
"Mouth closed, James. Merlin, he's like Ron." Ginny remarked, wiping away the last tear tracks as discreetly as she could.
"Hermione has her work cut out for her, that's for sure." Harry finally slid his plate back over in front of him, feeling his hunger renewed with the promise of a week alone with his wife. "I'll owl her tomorrow, and if you can floo your mum, I think we'll be in good shape for me to reach out to a travel agency around lunch, see what I can arrange."
Ginny reached across the table and stilled his hand in hers. Their eyes met across the table.
"Thank you."
The following morning, this morning, incidentally, he'd received word back from both his mother-in-law and best friend, both assuring him that his two children would be in excellent hands. Though, concerningly, Hermione had asked a follow up that gave him pause.
He'd been right... that her job wouldn't allow her James during the day. Rather than handing him off to Molly, however, as had been the initial contingency, Hermione had requested that she be allowed to take him with her on her rounds.
Harry gnawed the inside of his cheek, frowning for the first time in his contemplations.
The elderly at Waldweirness were prone to outbursts, sometimes benign, sometimes violent. He'd felt it necessary to floo to the Department of Woe earlier that morning and catch Hermione before her rounds to discuss the issue.
At length, and yet feeling a deep sense of misgiving over the arrangement, Harry had agreed that it'd be okay if Hermione dropped James off with Eileen Snape while making her rounds to the other residents.
He tried to reassure himself. He'd at least met the woman... she had some experience with children...
A vision of a scowling Snape, but amusingly pint-sized, rose sneering out of his memories. Harry shuddered then shook his head.
Even Snape had been a child once. He'd seen him in his memories—he hadn't always looked quite so sour. And it seemed in the circumstances Eileen had had available to her, she'd tried to do the best she could. It'd taken rather a lot of reassurance on Hermione's part, even so.
"I mean... she won't leave him on the porch sitting in the pram, will she?"
"Why on earth would she do that?" Hermione had asked with an affronted scoff.
"I dunno!" He'd said, his nerves colouring his voice with agitation, "I thought it was what was done in those days..."
That at least had given Hermione pause.
"Yeah... I mean, perhaps it was? But I can make sure to instruct her not to do that... besides, James doesn't even have a pram."
"That's true enough. Just... just make sure he's inside with her, and that she's actually watching him, alright?"
"Of course, Harry."
His hands traveled a nervous path over his scalp. "Does she even know you're asking this of her? Is she even alright with watching the son of a Potter?"
"She's not the Professor, Harry. But yes, I asked her after you left last time. I mentioned that there might be a chance for me to watch James or Al... I think you might be surprised. She seemed sad, yeah... but I think I saw a spark of hope or... or wistfulness... or even just some kind of Snape-y excitement over the prospect."
Harry heaved a put-upon sigh. "Alright. It'll only be for an hour or two right?"
"Right, then he'll sit with me in my office, while I do paperwork and other boring things."
It hadn't been the most reassuring of conversations. And he still wasn't certain James wouldn't drive his friend spare in the night, or perhaps early morning, rising at five o'clock as the toddler was wont to do, but that Hermione would have to find out for herself. He had warned her, after all.
The final step in his plan had been completed only a quarter of an hour earlier, an owl sent off to the premier travel agency in Diagon Alley and a lilac memo zooming up the hall to his superior's office. He hoped to hear back by that evening. If all was well, they'd be gone Monday.
"Excuse me," a rumbling voice broke into his thoughts.
Harry lifted his head at the disturbance, withdrawing his feet from his desk and sitting up to address his visitor.
There was a ruddy blond head peeking over his cubicle wall, an equally red hand tapping on the barrier. "Got a moment, Potter?"
"Hey, Gerald. What can I do you for?"
"I got this list from the courts a few moments ago. A list of possible tax evasions, I was hoping you could look it over and sign off on it. I wanted to go conduct the interviews sooner rather than later."
"Yeah sure, let me take a look," Harry said, reaching out a hand to receive the rolled parchment.
The list was alphabetical and surprisingly long. Harry himself didn't know the details on most of the businesses, nor on their proprietors, but he also understood that checking over the details wasn't anything more than a formality, at best.
"I assume they also sent over the case-files on each of these?" He asked, not looking up.
"Yeah, got a folder for each. It'll take a minute to get to all of them, but I could start with one or two this afternoon."
"Good, good. No arrests planned at the moment, of course..."
"No, none. Just taking statements."
"It all looks above board," he murmured, making it to the V's, but he found seconds later that it was too early to have spoken. As his eyes drew to the very end of the list he saw that the last accusation was... well... it was bogus, it had to be...
Harry tried not to show the way his gut clenched.
Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes
Address: 93 Diagon Alley, London
Proprietor: George Weasley
"Her Daddy wrestles alligators, Mama works on carburetors
Her brother is a fine mediator for the President
Well, here she is again on the phone
Just like me hates to be alone
We just like to sit at home, and rip on the President"
"Meet Virginia" (reprise) – Train