(Spring Term) Seventh Year

"FIVE . . . FOUR . . . THREE . . ." everybody present at The Burrow counts down until the New Year.

"Ah, fuck it," I hear George say before he plants a big smacking kiss on Angelina Johnson's lips. "Happy early New Year, Angie."

". . . ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!" everyone else choruses, paying no mind to George's early display of affection. All around you and me, everyone is coupling up and kissing their significant other.

You glance over at me, probably wondering if I am still mad at you. "Happy New Year, Gin," you say hesitantly. Your eyebrows draw together as you consider how badly I will hurt you if you try to kiss me.

I make the decision for you and place a quick kiss on the corner of your mouth and pull away hastily before you have time to react. The kiss is by no means romantic but it lets you know that I am not thinking of breaking up with you. I'm just completely, furiously, and irrationally mad at you – that's all.

You sigh, knowing that there is nothing you can do without making me even madder. Subconsciously, your hand snakes down to intertwine with mine but I yank mine out of your grip.

"Don't touch me," I hiss at you and stare stonily at the impressive display of fireworks George has created in the sky with his and Fred's supply of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes products.

"Ginny, it was an ac –"

I snarl: "Don't you fucking dare tell me that my Pygmy Puff's death was an 'accident'!" I shake my head, thoroughly appalled at your nerve to lie about the circumstances of my beloved pet's death. "We both know quite well that it was not a bloody accident!"

"Literally, yes, I mean there was no blood at all. I should think it was quite painless –"

"ARGGHH!" I scream at you and turn sharply on my heel so I can stomp into the house. I'm not really in a firework-watching-festive-partying-Happy-fucking-N ew-Year-holiday mood; I'm more in a scream-and-yell-because-Harry-James-Potter-is-the- most-insensitve-git-I-have-ever-met mood.

Just last week you and George and the rest of my Quidditch-obsessed family were trying to play out in the back garden like we always do during the holidays. However, some forgetful asshole hadn't thought to place the Quaffle back in its proper spot so the game was missing a Quaffle to throw around. And then, of course, some absolutely bloody brilliant wizard decided that my Pygmy Puff (out of all things!) could be used in lieu of the Quaffle. I was washing potatoes for the dinner that night when I saw my pink fluff ball being tossed around at breakneck speeds. By the time I had run outside to reprimand you dumbasses, the damage had been done and my poor Pygmy Puff was lying in a crumpled, fluffy pink ball on the ground after it had been 'accidentally' knocked into a broomstick.

Accident, my ass. And its death is all your fault because you were the fucking brilliant wizard who had the damn shitty idea of using my Pygmy Puff as a makeshift Quaffle –

"I'm sorry, Ginny," you say and stand behind me so you can wrap your arms around my waist. "Truly and honestly." You rest your chin on my shoulder and wait for me to scream at you in retribution.

And as much as I want to yell at you, the tears come flowing out first. "He w-was fragile!" I blubber out. "He was a l-living thing with a h-heartbeat and-d a b-b-brain. He was my f-friend – almost family!"

"I know, love," you murmur and stroke my hair gently.

"And you killed him!"

"Not on purpose," you tell me earnestly. "It just . . . happened."

The tears come rushing out even faster.

"Aw, shit," you groan and wipe the tears from my eyes. "Gin, you know I didn't mean to-"

I scowl. "Yeah, but what if you did the same thing with our child? Merlin, Harry, you killed a living thing! Who's to say that you won't do the same thing to our children? You 'didn't mean to' – what a load of bull! You knew all the potential risks when you replaced the Quaffle with my damn Pygmy Puff!"

You've stiffened in excitement behind me. "Our children?" you ask in a glowing voice.

"Yes, our fucking children!" I roll my eyes exasperatedly. One does not need a genius like Hermione to know that you did not hear a single word after I uttered the phrase that has you so entranced at the moment. "And if I don't castrate you now for killing my Pygmy Puff, we might never have children!"

"Adoption," you say absent-mindedly with stars in your eyes as you envision little Harrys and Ginnys running around. "And we always have Teddy." Your hand around my waist rubs my tummy reverently. "You won't castrate me, though. You wouldn't take away the chances of having our children."

I huff indignantly at your smugness. "You never know," I say but the fight has left my voice.

Ron and Hermione choose that moment to come bursting into the kitchen where we've been arguing. "Oh," Ron says unapologetically. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

I know my brother means exactly the opposite – despite you being his best mate, Ron still isn't keen on the idea of me fancying you and you fancying me back even though you and I have been together for about a year now, give or take a few months. "Go away, Ron," I tell my brother crossly.

"Eeee!" Hermione squeals and rushes towards me immediately, her eyes locked on where you are rubbing my stomach. "Oh. My. Godric. Are you pregnant, Ginny?"

Momentarily taken aback – Hermione Granger is not the squeal-y type – I hesitate with my answer. Apparently my little pause is enough to rile Ron up and start shooting you murderous looks.

"Blimey, mate, that better not be the case or else I'll knock you up!" Ron growls out.

The rest of the Weasleys decide to choose this moment to walk in and catch the last few words of Ron's sentence. "What's going on here?" Dad asks about the sudden tension in the room.

Fleur takes one look at you and me and then joins Hermione in the whole squeal-y giggle-fest or whatever. "Ginny, you're pregnant!" my sister-in-law bursts out excitedly.

Whoa, there. Hold up. How is that Hermione and Fleur have decided that I am pregnant before I even knew it? And considering that you and I have never done it yet, well, I think it's time to set my family straight before they start deciding on the pseudo-baby's gender and name.

"Harry, take your hand off me," I hiss to you since that's what has started this whole mess in the first place. You, of course, do no such thing and leave your hand on my tummy. I think it's programmed in your DNA to be the most obtuse and difficult human being on the face of Earth. Addressing the whole group, I say: "What? You guys, I'm not pregnant. That's absurd. I'm only seventeen."

Hermione shrugs. "So? Haven't you heard of Sixteen and Pregnant? Or Teen Mum?"

Mum shudders – she's more of the traditional type and the wait-until-your-marriage-night kind of witch. "How awful," she exclaims.

I don't know whether she's talking about me not being pregnant (I know how much she's been longing for a grandchild) or the whole scandalous issue of teen witches and Muggles who are pregnant. I'm thinking her opinion about the conversation is a mixture of the two topics.

"Yeah, so, sorry to burst your bubbles," I say bluntly. "Nice to know that ya'll really want me and Harry to have sex and make babies, though."

Ron blanches. "Ahh! My ears! My baby sister dared to talk about procreation with my best mate!"

Behind me, you chuckle at the Ron's immaturity. The rest of my family starts to disperse throughout the house once the whole baby-making drama starts to dissipate and fade away. When it is just me and you left in the kitchen, you whisper in my ear: "Have made your New Year's resolution yet?"

"No; you?"

You finally take your hand of my stomach and mime locking your lips and throwing away the key. "Can't tell you or it won't come true," you say.

"Does it have anything to do with babies?" I guess knowingly.

You wink in response. "I want my wish to come true, Ginny; I can't tell you what it is."

I roll my eyes. "It's a resolution, Harry, not a wish."

"Same difference," you inform me and then dip me into a swoon-worthy kiss.

Happy New Year, indeed.

.

.

"Miss Weasley, what do you plan on doing with your life?" Headmistress McGonagall asks me my second week back from the winter holidays. She peers at me from over her spectacles, studying me carefully from where she sits behind her desk in her office.

The War took a tremendous toll on the Wizarding economy, and now the Ministry requires every school to send in a consensus of the Seventh Years' career plans. Healers and Aurors and all the main professions stop by regularly to recruit students to fill in vacant positions. Hogwarts even hosts a Career Month and invites Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students to come plan their future. And, just recently, Headmistress McGonagall has started up these one-on-one sessions that help the Seventh Years to focus on what job occupation they are most compatible with.

"Quidditch, Headmistress McGonagall," I answer. "I hope to play professional Quidditch."

"Yes, yes, you would do well at that," Headmistress McGonagall praises me with a small note of pride in her voice. She is obviously recalling the time I led Gryffindor to winning the House Cup in my Fifth Year. "But, Minister Shacklebolt is requiring all students to pick a professional and a dream job. Perhaps you can come up with something a little more . . . realistic for the Minister's taste?"

I arch an eyebrow. "I'm sure Kingsley supports me and my Quidditch-playing skills."

Headmistress McGonagall does not bother correcting me on my casual use of Kingsley's name. What she does is arch her own eyebrow right back at me. "Please comply with me and the Ministry rules, Ginny."

I huff. "Alright." I tap my chin in contemplation. There's not really much I want to do in the Wizarding world. I really do not want a Ministry-related job – they are all much too stuffy and uptight for my liking. Healing has never been a strength of mine which is clearly reflected in my Potion marks. Honestly, all I have ever wanted to do with my life is play Quidditch. "I could . . . write for Quidditch Illustrated?"

"Could you?"

I nod my head decisively. "Yes. That is going to be my back-up realistic job."

Headmistress McGonagall marks it down on a piece of parchment and then nods her head at me. "Thank you, Miss Weasley. That is all. Please send in Miss Willows."

"Yes, ma'am." I dutifully get up to leave but Headmistress McGonagall asks me to wait for a second.

"Oh, and Ginny? The Holyhead Harpies are down on the Quidditch Pitch. It seems to be that they have a Chaser spot open. I find it to be in your best interests to hurry down immediately and audition for the position. I've taken it upon my liberty to cancel the rest of your classes for today."

My eyes widen in delighted surprise. "Thank you so much!" I say gratefully before I practically fly out of her office.

"Good luck!" I hear her call out from behind me.

.

.

McGonagall granted me no classes this afternoon, so I take advantage of that and inform Hagrid of my absence before I leave the school grounds and Apparate to the Ministry. No, I am not looking for my Dad or for Ron. I'm here because of you.

My hair is wet from the shower I took prior to coming to the Ministry. I had changed out of my Quidditch uniform into some Muggle clothes instead of Hogwarts robes. I didn't think it would be in my best interest to parade around the fact that I am skiving classes right now. Although, avoiding attention seems to be impossible due to the fact that my ginger hair is like a beacon to everybody since they all stop and stare at me as I walk through the Ministry and towards the Department of Magical Law Enforcement where Aurors work.

"Miss, I'm going to need you to stop for identification –" a young wizard who looks like he is barely old enough to be working at the Ministry interrupts my path.

I nod in understanding. "Of course. Sorry. Slipped my mind." I hand over my wand and wait patiently during the whole identification process. Ever since the War, the Ministry has instituted new procedures to tighten its security – wouldn't want another infiltration now, would we?

"M-miss Weasley?" the wizard asks with awestruck wide grey eyes.

"Sir?"

"I am so sorry for taking up your valuable time," he tells me as he stops in the middle of the identification process. "Please proceed on your way."

I eye him curiously. "Alright. Thank you." He gives me my wand back and sweeps into a low bow. I knit my eyebrows together and curtsy to him. Is this a new protocol? Bowing and curtsying? I make a mental note to ask you about this.

Whispers follow in my wake as I catch the next lift to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I try not to pay the gossipers any attention but my ears cannot help but listen to the snippets of conversation flowing around me:

"Look, Kelbe! It's Potter's girlfriend over there!"

"In Rita Skeeter's article in the Daily Prophet, it said that Ginny Weasley was his fiancée –"

"What is she wearing? Are cowboy boots in style these days now?"

"At least she doesn't smell like a barn. Rumour has it she is launching a new fragrance called eau du Pots in honour of Mr Potter."

The fuck? I ask myself, mentally rolling my eyes at the shit these people are saying. None of it rings a Knut of truth.

"I wish I had red hair like her –"

"I wish I had brown eyes like her –"

"I wish I was her –"

"Oh, shut up Rowling. You just want Harry Potter all for yourself –"

"She's one damn lucky bitch –" The last word is whispered so as to not offend me in case I happened to be listening – which I am but they didn't know that – and is meant as a term of endearment.

The lift stops at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and I exit the lift gratefully to be away from those witches and wizards incessant gossiping. Before the grills close, though, I turn to the witch named Rowling and smile at her graciously. "Thanks," I tell her honestly. "It truly is a dream come true to be with Harry." The lift then departs, carrying Rowling and her friends' incredulous faces away from the Department.

I turn around and search out your office. I've never actually been in the Auror Department except for that time I was asked to clear out Tonks' office for her. The all-too-familiar lump in my throat forms when I think of Tonks and her vivid personality. Merlin, not a day goes past when I don't miss her. In my thoughts and recollections of Tonks, I fail to watch where I am headed, and I crash into something hard which results in a flurry of papers.

"Dobby's sock!" someone curses.

My eyes widen. Only one person in the Wizarding world uses that expression and that is – "Harry! Oh my Godric, I am so sorry." I drop to the ground and help you gather up the pieces of parchment that I had scattered about the Department floor.

You're not moving, though. I look up to see you staring at me in slack-jawed silence. "Gin?" you ask, pulling out of your reverie. "What're you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be at Hogwarts?"

"I dropped out like you mentioned I should do last term," I say seriously although I'm actually just kidding around with you.

I did not think it to be possible, but your jaw dropped even lower at my declaration. "WHAT?"

That outburst causes office doors to fly open and Aurors to come spilling out with wands held pointed straight at me. "Miss, I am going to have to escort you off the premises," a stuffy old gentleman with a belly the size of the Sahara Desert commands me. "You are disturbing and harassing Mr Potter."

I give him a look of incredulity. First of all, I cannot take him seriously when his belly and my eyes are having a staring contest. Secondly, wow, the Ministry is really going overboard with their security team. Or maybe they are not if they have assigned this old codger on it. "I'm not going anywhere," I tell him resolutely. "And if there is any harassment of any kind happening towards Mr Potter right now, it's of the sexual kind. It's not my fault if he can't handle my sexiness."

"Ginny!" you hiss at me in disbelief.

What do you expect? I'm a Weasley; I think it's our trademark to deflect awkward situations with inappropriate humour. "Sorry not sorry?" I offer back as a form of apology.

The codger is looking between me and you in confusion. "What say you?" he asks. "If my ears do not deceive me, you are Miss Ginny Weasley?"

"You don't need ears to know that," I retort. "Just take a look at my hair. Surely you can tell my last name from the atrocious colour gracing my head."

"Ginny," you laugh. To the Aurors crowding around us, you say: "Pay us no mind. My girlfriend's just being . . . Ginny at the moment."

I raise my eyebrows at your horrible explanation. Apparently lying or covering up situations is not your forte. You give me a just go with it look.

The old man with the forty-pound belly harrumphs at us but he cannot do anything because you are Harry Potter and I am Ginny Weasley and therefore, as war heroes, we have immunity against the pointless complaints and demanding of office officials such as him. He waddles away into his cubicle with as much dignity as he can muster given the circumstances (and that belly).

You pick up your papers and guide me into your own cubicle. "Wow, Gin. You sure know how to make a dramatic entrance." Your eyes are sparkling with mirth at me.

That reminds me: "Yeah, apparently there's a new law about bowing and curtsying?" I ask you.

"Just to celebrities in the Wizarding world," you say.

"What?" I lean up against a bookshelf and cross my arms across my chest. "I don't think so."

"Why do you ask?" you question, curiosity drawn upon your face.

I shrug. "People were bowing to me and such in the lobby. I'm not a celebrity, Harry. Surely they've gotten the wrong person . . .?"

You grin. "Gin, love, you're like magical royalty these days. You're a war hero considering your significant efforts fighting Voldemort during the Second Wizarding War. And, you're my girlfriend." You set down your papers and cross your office to stand in front of me so you can lean in and give me a kiss. "That's pretty special, isn't it?"

"I should be given an award for having to deal with your ego on a daily basis," I grumble good-naturedly and kiss you again.

"Ouch, Gin," you say in a mock-hurt voice. "How you wound me so!"

"You'll get over it," I remark flippantly and snuggle up into your arms.

"Mm," you murmur. "If you say so." We stay embraced for a couple of minutes, lost in the feel of each other. Your interest has finally gotten the better of you, though. "And to what do I owe to enjoying your lovely company when I believe you should be in Transfiguration at the moment? And why is your hair wet? Is it raining outside?"

I bite my lip in excitement and push you away gently. "See my T-shirt, Harry?"

At first, your face is a look of genuine hurt at my rejection of your hug, but then it transforms into puzzlement as your eyes fly down to stare at the logo emblazoned upon my shirt. "I don't understand . . .?" you ask, your eyes never moving off my chest.

I roll my eyes. "Godric, Harry, you are such a male. I wasn't asking you to stare at my boobs."

"Oh," is your response. Then you actually look at my shirt rather than my breasts. Your eyes widen once you make the connection. "Gin . . .?"

"Yup," I say in smug satisfaction. "You're looking at the Holyhead Harpies' newest right-wing Chaser."

.

.

"Ginvera Weasley!" Headmistress McGonagall announces.

I step in front of the Great Hall, a big smile plastered on my face. Looking out into the sea of faces, I get the feeling of déjà vu from a scene six years ago when I was Sorted in Hogwarts. Six years of perfection that I never, ever want to forget.

I accept the diploma Headmistress McGonagall hands to me, smiling the entire time. "Thank you," I whisper to her.

You're the first one to call out a cheer after I hold my diploma. It's fitting, after all. You were the first one I heard cheering when I was Sorted. Mind you, you were off stuck in the Whomping Willow, but your murmuring of congratulations six years ago was the first words of praise that my brain processed.

I throw my graduation cap off, and you hand me a baseball cap in return. "Ready?" you ask, laughter in your eyes.

"Always," is my answer. "As long as you're with me."