They were sat on the couch, sleeves rolled up, radio playing quietly, drinking muggle wine. Fancy shit, stuff The Ministry had given Hermione who’d given it to Ron who’d then re-gifted it to Ginny for Christmas.
“– We were taking about how we learned the Patronus charm – you know Hollis still doesn’t know? – I said you would teach her sometime.”
“I will?” Harry said, amused.
“You taught me.” She reasoned.
Harry rolled his eyes, “Not really.”
“Yes really.” Ginny sipped her wine, gold bracelet sliding down and hitting her forearm, “You were a good teacher.”
“I had poor competition.”
“True, you were still top three though.”
“Top three?”
“Sure. It’s like,” she ticked off on her fingers, “Lupin, McGonagall, and then you. Easy.”
Harry shook his head, sipping his frankly shocking wine. He’d tried transform their goblets into proper wine glasses to show her what they looked like, only the rim was a little off, still a little too large.
“This reflects very poorly on our education.”
“Nah, you were just impressive.” She’s all casual, sipping wine, a knockout.
Harry just looked at her, raised eyebrows.
“You were!” she sat up on the couch, looking at him, fingers around the stem of her glass, “You are now. You were a good teacher.” She waggled her eyebrows, “Good-looking too.”
Harry laughed. “Flirt.”
“Always,” she grinned over the lip of her glass, took another sip, “God,” she took another sip, “I liked you so much, it was embarrassing. I was worried all the time that you would notice and say something in class.”
“I would never have done that.” Harry said, honestly, feeling the wine all through him. That, and Ginny’s voice, I liked you so much.
“I know.” She waved a hand, still cross-legged, “Just fifteen-year-old bullshit, spinning out. I was convinced you knew, Fred and George-“ the tinniest flinch, “had me on about it. Merlin, fifteen” she ran a hand though her hair, “That’s- wow. I’ve been in love with you for ages.”
Harry couldn’t think for a minute. I’ve been in love with you for ages. You were just impressive. Bizarre, how he spent most of his life preparing to die and now he’s twenty-two, on his couch, drinking wine with the person he’ll be in love with forever, no take backs, in disbelief at his own dumb luck.
“How do I hold up?” he asked, twitching his fingers a little on top of the couch to tap his knuckle against her hand. She snaps her eyes to him. He lives lifetimes.
“Better,” Ginny said, music humming, voice golden, “Better than I thought you’d be.”
“Still good looking?” he joked, returning to himself
“Eh,” she shrugged, “You win some you lose some.”
“I should’ve asked you that when you’d had more wine.” Harry said, ruefully, and Ginny laughed. Knockout.
So at one point this was going to be part of the epilogue, but it just felt too twee/fluffy and not really how I wanted to end things. I hope you all like it as a deleted scene, I've tidied it up a bit. To preemptively field some questions, yes James and Ted certainly did have a long chat over a pint regarding James's anxieties over becoming a father, and I think Ted was able to reassure him that he was actually in a much better position than Ted himself was, and he'd done all right. I think this probably happened when James, now attuned to pregnancy symptoms, spotted that Vic was probably pregnant again and spoke to Ted about how they were pregnant too, so Ted knew earlier than everyone else. I'm sorry, I haven't actually written this scene, but maybe I will at some point. I think Remus was born at the start of September, and Kit at the end of September. I won't be putting this on ao3, it is just a treat for Tumblr followers, as WFTT is firmly finished and I don't want to enter an endless dragging out of their story! But you guys can have some lil scenes now and then because you all deserve it.
Anyway, enjoy below the cut!
The office was bursting with morning chaos. Hazel and James stepped out of the elevator straight into it, memos whizzing past their heads, pausing only to stop at their over-stuffed pigeon holes for their post, casually shouting ‘morning!’ as they passed others. Ellie Cattermole walked past wearing thick dragon-hide gloves as she carried a seemingly ordinary looking wellington boot, except for the fact that it was growling loudly. ‘Tell him it’s not his choice,’ she was saying grumpily to a trainee. ‘He can’t get it back because it’s illegal, I don’t care if he wasn’t the one who charmed it.’
At the tea point, a cacophony of clinking mugs and whistling kettles and Aurors chatting about their cases or the twist on the wireless soap opera ‘The Bowmans” last night. As they strode past, Auror Wright did not break his conversation, but glanced at Hazel, leaned over the island, and held out a manilla file, which she took smoothly.
‘Potter!’ said Susan sharply. ‘Potter, do you have your monthly stats for me yet?’
‘Ah, Susan, you’re hilarious,’ James called back.
‘I mean it!’
‘I forgot - memory problems.’
‘Potter!’
‘I’ll get them to you close of play, promise.’ They continued on, Hazel reading her file as she went, James rifling through the post he had picked up from his pigeon hole.
‘Ugh, I have so much admin today… And my morgue report is inconclusive, what a pain in the arse…’
‘I’ve got a meeting with the gaffer,’ said Hazel, still staring at her file. ‘And then I’m with my trainee all day - lunch?’
‘See you then,’ said James cheerfully, and he kissed her on the cheek as they parted ways at the end of the corridor.
She briefly popped her head into her cubicle, where her trainee, Martha MacIlindon, was unpacking her bag for the day, and told her where she’d be, before heading straight to Auror Hodges’ office.
The meeting started as they usually did; Theia’s quick smile and chit chat about how things were going, a check in on the new trainee (who, Hazel was sorry to say, seemed increasingly unlikely to make it to qualification), and the offer of a cup of tea.
‘Please,’ she said, as she sat down in one of the sleek pin-leg chairs by the coffee table.
‘The usual? Milk and one sugar?’ At Hazel’s nod, Theia flicked her wand, and a kettle, two mugs, tea bags and sugar appeared in mid-air. ‘Ooh, also,’ said Theia, with the air of someone about to impart exciting, secret news, ‘I have a nice job for you for after this meeting. See that envelope there?’ She nodded towards an envelope on the coffee table as she poured out the tea. ‘James passed his latest exam, you can do the honours of giving him the news, if you’d like.’
‘Oh, brilliant!’ Hazel picked up the envelope; on the front, in neat print, were the words ‘AUROR POTTER, CONCEALMENT AND DISGUISE. ‘Oh, he was so nervous for this one, he’ll be thrilled.’
‘I told him,’ said Theia with brisk pragmatism. ‘He passed it before, he would do so again - he did better this time around, actually.’
‘Yeah, I bet…’ said Hazel vaguely, who had watched James practice human transfiguration in the mirror throughout the evenings for weeks, his freckles vanishing without a trace.
‘Anyway…’
Theia handed her the cup of tea, and Hazel tried not to gag. It looked normal, and she had watched as Theia put in a teaspoon of sugar as was her usual request, but the milk must have gone off. She kept her lips closed as she pretended to sip it, though nothing seemed wrong with Theia’s.
‘Now - security detailing for the Quidditch National Cup,’ said Theia briskly. ‘I’ve been having a think, and I think that it is unlikely that we’ll see trouble but you did raise a good point about the potential for protests over the delegation from the International Confederation of Wizards, so I’ve been having a think and I’d like you to lead Team A-’
‘Right - brilliant,’ said Hazel eagerly, leaning forward as Theia brought out a large map and unfolded it on the table. Moving arrows in a variety of colours wiggled across it.
‘This is the site, the stadium here, obviously, but then the campgrounds will need monitoring too. The Pennines do offer some protection and secrecy, but I am a bit concerned about this area here, so - when you’ve chosen your team - I’d like you to take charge of this zone and-’
She couldn’t stop yawning, and the more she tried, the more she felt the urge. She tried hiding it behind her hand as she scratched her nose, tried keeping her mouth shut until her eyes watered, tried timing them for when Theia did not seem to be looking, but they just kept coming as a great heaviness overwhelmed her. At one point, she found herself looking longingly at the squashy sofa, there since Auror Potter had been Head, maybe even before him, and thinking about how the years would have softened the leather, and how comfortable it would be to simply lie down and…
‘Ughr - you’re making me yawn now, stop it!’ said Theia suddenly.
Hazel felt her face grow warm, but smiled as Theia yawned widely and gave her shoulders a little shake. ‘Sorry.’
‘Late night?’ Theia asked, though she did not seem irritated.
‘No, actually, I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ said Hazel. ‘I’ve been knackered for a few days. Maybe I’m coming down with something, I felt a bit sick coming out the floo.’
‘Maybe you’re pregnant,’ said Theia casually.
Hazel laughed. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ she said, with plenty of dry humour, but inside it felt as though heavy iron cogs were screeching and clunking as things fell into place.
‘-Now the VIP section here - I hope you don’t mind, I know your in-laws will be there and everything, but I’ve given that bit to LaPointe, because he knows pretty much everyone in there and he’ll be better placed to spot any intruders-’
‘Mmhmm, yeah, makes sense,’ Hazel said, though her internal thoughts were now far away, and preoccupied with counting. The twelfth, or something like that, plus twenty eight days would bring her up to - no, wait, not twenty eight because it had lasted, what, four or five days? Let’s say a week. Was it definitely the twelfth - yes, because James had made that shit joke about hoping it wouldn’t interrupt their first anniversary on the eighteenth and she’d nearly thumped him… But there had to have been another time since then, there had to have been, they were nearly into February now…
‘-So I’ll leave you to round up who you want,’ finished Theia.
‘Right,’ said Hazel. ‘How many?’
Theia gave her a shrewd sort of stare. ‘Six, as discussed,’ she said eventually, and before Hazel could apologise, she added, ‘do try to keep in mind that Quidditch fans aren’t particularly useful at these kind of events.’
Half an hour later, she sat at her desk, drumming her quill against the wood, staring blankly at the wall. ‘Martha,’ she said suddenly, ‘could you… could you go and book me a private meeting room?’
‘Sure, when for?’
‘For now.’
‘Oh, erm… who with?’
Hazel opened her mouth, and thought for a few moments. ‘I… I’m giving out some exam results, so just block a room out for an hour and I’ll call people to me.’
‘Ooh!’ she said excitedly. ‘Did my stealth exam results come back?’
‘How on earth should I know?’ said Hazel distractedly. ‘Could you just do that, please, while I make some tea, do you want any?’
Martha said something, and Hazel replied ‘OK’, and left without looking at her.
Heading straight to the tea point, she made herself the perfect cuppa, exactly as she liked it, the perfect shade of caramel brown, the precise amount of sugar, the bag left in for the ideal amount of time, right down to the second. James always told her that her tea was awful, but she insisted that what he called strong was in fact just bitter.
She knew it was right. She knew the milk was in date and not spoiled.
It was revolting.
She threw it in the sink, and strode swiftly back to her cubicle, the heels of her shoes thudding rapidly against the carpeted corridor, though not as quickly as the tattoo her heart was pounding against her ribcage.
‘Did you book me a room?’ she asked Martha, and maybe she sounded angry, because Martha jumped and looked terrified.
‘Yes - Room 7-’
‘Right, thank you, appreciate it,’ said Hazel, hoping that was enough to make up for her rudeness. Then she turned on her heel, and hurried away again.
She could hear James’s laughter well before she reached his cubicle, and Crispin’s head and shoulders over the top. He was gesturing vigorously with his arm, a beaming grin on his face. As she turned and stood on the doorway, she could see James laughing as he lay on the floor, Crispin making odd, exaggerated motions above him.
‘Haze - Haze - if you were a body - if you were a body with a great big hole in here, how would you have to be lying for Crispin to get at you with a pickaxe? It’s relevant to a case, I promise.’
‘See, I think the ceiling was too low where he said it happened,’ said Crispin. ‘You need to get a proper momentum, don’t you? But there was no-’
‘Maybe he swung it sideways - like - if I lie on the desk-’
‘Can I talk to you?’ she blurted out, and James froze, halfway through trying to mount the desk, and raised his eyebrows at Crispin. ‘Am I in trouble?’ he asked lightly.
‘No, I just - I’ve booked a meeting room, can we-?’
‘No office sex,’ Crispin advised. ‘Not allowed.’
‘Thanks for the tip, I’ll be sure to pass it on to Dee,’ said James, and Crispin stuck two fingers up at him as they left.
‘What’s going on?’ James asked, but Hazel stayed silent until she reached the meeting room, showed him in, and pulled down the blinds.
‘People really will think we’re shagging in here,’ he said.
‘Fine,’ she muttered, and she half opened them, then cleared her throat as she turned to face him. ‘I…’ Now that she was here, she was not sure how to say it. A thought popped into her head, and she reached into her pocket to pull out the envelope. ‘Your exam results came back,’ she said, handing them to him.
His face fell as he took it, and he slumped into a seat at the table as he stared at it. ‘I failed,’ he said dully.
‘What? No - you passed!’ said Hazel. ‘Better than last time-’
‘I did?’ he said, looking astounded, and ripping it open. ‘Really? But - 98%!’ He looked elated. ‘Bloody hell - don’t do that to me, Haze, I thought something terrible had happened, look at this - 98%!’
‘It’s… it’s brilliant.’
‘Full marks on skin amendments, yes! Get in!’ He looked up at her, grinning broadly, but then frowned. 'What? What's wrong?'
She swallowed, and then sat in the sea beside him. 'Do you remember…' she began uneasily, 'when my last period was?'
He stared at her for a few moments. 'Well that's not fair,' he said quietly. 'Healer Gower says I don't have to do these kinds of tests anymore…'
'Oh my God, you know what it is I'm hinting at,' she snapped.
'Yes, I know,' he said, and he seemed to be trying to stay calm. 'I don't… I don't know, I don't remember.' His gaze drifted off to the left, and they were both in silence for a while. 'Just before our anniversary,' he said at last. 'That's the most recent I can think of.'
'That's what I thought of too,' she said quietly. 'That's… well that's a bit…'
'Have you done a test?' he asked.
'No, I only just thought of it-'
'Why, what-?'
'I had some tea and it was disgusting.'
'Your tea is always disgusting, Haze, you make it too weak and sweet.'
'Now is really not the time.'
'Right, sorry.'
'And I felt like I was going to throw up when we were in the floo this morning and I thought maybe it was just motion sickness but the more I think about it the more I think, no, it wasn't like motion sickness at all-'
'All right, OK,' he said steadily. 'Well, let's not… lose our heads or anything, OK? I'll go and get you a test at lunch-'
'Are you joking? Can you imagine if the press spots you buying-'
'Hello?' he said, waving his exam results. 'Going to put this 98% to good use.'
She nodded rapidly. 'All right, yeah… Yeah, if you pick it up… Let’s do it when we get home…’ She looked at him carefully; his lips were pressed tight together, but she could see elation in his eyes, and he put down the exam results and reached for her hands.
‘Do you really think you are?’ he said quietly, almost breathing the words.
‘I think I might be.’
‘I just… how, we’re usually good at-’
‘Remember when we stayed at your parents for Christmas,’ she said quickly, looking down at their entwined fingers. ‘And we almost fell asleep afterwards and then you remembered about the potion in my bag and then we were joking around about forgetting things…’
‘Yeah…’ he said slowly. ‘Oh. We didn’t actually take any. We just talked about it and patted ourselves on the back for remembering but didn’t...’
‘No.’
‘Too much mulled wine.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Wow,’ he said, running his thumbs over her hands. Their eyes met, and they both saw joy there, a giddy anticipation. James seemed unable to keep himself from smiling, and he released her hands to rub his jaw, half chuckling. ‘I’m really glad you gave me those results so I’ve got a reason if anyone asks me why I’m grinning like a moron.’
‘I haven’t done the test yet,’ she warned him. ‘I could genuinely just be a bit ill or something.’
‘Yeah, but…’
He looked at her meaningfully, and she understood. Should the test be negative, their gut reactions, their instant thrill, their longing meant that their previous plans to wait a little longer, another year or two, were thrown out like the repulsive tea.
***
Their joy lasted through the day, and exploded like a glorious firework when they got home, the gleaming white potion bottle falling from the coffee table as they celebrated enthusiastically on the sofa.
It was not until many hours later, in the silent hours of the night, that anything changed.
‘Hazel,’ he whispered. ‘Haze.’
Her eyes flickered open, and she squinted in the dim moonlight that had slipped through the curtains to see him leaning above her, his face inches from her own. ‘James?’ she murmured.
‘What if… what if I’m not actually better?’ he whispered frantically. ‘Do you think I should - I should ask Healer Gower for more tests-’
‘Your short term memory’s back at full capacity,’ she said sleepily, rubbing at her eyes. ‘That’s why you came back to-’
‘Yes but I’m still missing a lot, aren’t I, I’m still not right-’
‘James-’
‘-And they said all that might never return, that’s why I had to re-do all those exams-’
‘You didn’t have to do those exams, we told you that you didn’t-’
‘I did!’ He sounded quite frantic. ‘Haze - what if I can’t - what if I forget to, to feed it or something, or where I put it, or if it grows up and hates me because I never remember important things-’
She gently pushed on his chest to ease him off, and sat up herself, reaching for the bedside lamp. The bedroom was bathed in golden light, the earthy tones and soft, thick blankets warm against the cold winter night. She looked at him; he did not seem to have got any sleep, his face pale and dark circles around his eyes, his hair ruffled where he had been running his hand through it. There was a slight shine of white from the jagged little scar on his forehead, and the curved one that came down his temple from his hairline.
‘No one wants to have to look after their parent,’ he said quietly. ‘You can’t put that on a child.’
‘It’s been a long time since you needed looking after,’ she said.
‘Not really. A year. We said - we said that we were going to wait until-’
‘We did,’ she said calmly. ‘But I’m pregnant now. So there's no more waiting.' She leaned forward and kissed him, her hand cupping the side of his jaw. 'I have complete faith in you,' she said as they broke apart. 'This is a good thing.'
'It is,' he agreed. 'I'm just… How can I know, really, that I'm going to be able to-'
She kissed him once more. 'I know,' she told him. 'So if you can't trust yourself, you'll just have to trust me.'
a revelation in the light of day coda in four parts
III. Betty
The hotel towels are overbleached; she used to remember to slip the front desk some cash for the soft, fresh ones. Betty fishes in her toiletry bag for her shampoo and conditioner. There’s a slate blue bottle, a travel size of Jughead’s body wash. She feels silly about bringing it, and even more pathetic for uncapping it on the first night away. The shame washes away when she dries off, still smelling like him.
It’s him who called, so she returns it, flopping back on the bed. Her wet hair tentacles out. The sheets are scratchier than she remembers. Maybe she’s gotten too used to her new linen at home. Maybe you’re supposed to get used to good things.
Riverdale, 1947.
The war is won, and all Archie Andrews wants to do is settle into a life of small-town monotony with his beautiful bride, Veronica Lodge. His plans are thwarted when a man called Adams appears at his door on a rainy night, armed with knowledge of Archie’s less-than-legal actions overseas and an invitation to join the newly-formed CIA. For Archie, the thought of attempting to hide the classified pieces of his past from his insightful new wife and her intimidating father is more daunting than the battlefield.
On the other side of town, his best friend Jughead Jones, afraid of becoming an alcoholic veteran like his father before him, immerses himself in the politics of war and the future of humanity in the aftermath of the atomic bomb. He wants to be an investigative reporter – but the one thing standing in his way is Betty Cooper, heiress to the town newspaper and the only girl he’s ever loved, whose quiet confession of feelings he rejected back in ’42, worried he’d come back to her as nothing but a corpse.
And they’re not the only ones in town with secrets.
A fun collaboration with @lessoleilscouchants, who wrote the little description. (please follow her!)
Outside the small window, the sun was setting. The sky was a dusky indigo. It was cloudless and smooth, like rich velvet or good coffee. It would be a good night, warm but clear. He sat back against his seat. He took out his cigarettes and shook one free from the pack. He looked at the numbers on his ticket. 8, 26, 38. He repeated them to himself and tapped his fingers against his knee to give them a beat. Index, middle, ring. Ba, ba-dum, ba-dum-ba. The man beside him asked if he was a nervous flyer. He said not really. He was just anxious about the weekend. There was a lot riding on it. The man asked how much.
“Just my life,” he replied.
Outside the airport, he stripped his jacket off and folded it over his arm. The desert heat was dry and assaulting. He adjusted the knot on his tie and took out another cigarette. The smoke curled into the space between his sunglasses. He repeated the numbers to himself. After a few minutes, a car rocketed up the road and swerved over to the curb. The top was down and the wheels coated with a film of dust. The driver was wearing a short white dress. Her hair was in a loose braid and studded with tiny blue flowers with bright yellow centers. A pair of sunglasses with large round frames covered half her face. She lowered them.
Ace is finally home. The walls around him are familiar, the furniture worn. It’s strange to rest in a place that isn’t a motel- or the backseat of his car.
Nancy finds him, however much time later, when things have calmed and returned to some semblance of normal. Sitting on a bench by the back door of the kitchen, hunched over and playing with his phone, the scene reminiscent of the first time they met. Their eyes meet ever so briefly, before his turn back to the phone in hand, thinking she must be off shift now and heading home.
The dealership was not very busy. In the showroom, a couple eyed a red Camaro with slow, vulturous steps. They were finely dressed. The man wore sharp leather shoes and a suit. The woman had on a mink cape. A few more people circled around the used car lot. A salesman was talking to someone near the big orange sign: Only your authorized Chevrolet dealer has OK used cars! In the service bay, there was a Brookwood, tan colored, long. A yellow car near it, an El Camino, angular. He saw Betty with her head bowed under the hood of a car. She was in a denim jumpsuit, big and shapeless. Her hair was tied up and caught under the collar. He pulled it free and gave it a small tug. “Hi baby. Almost didn’t recognize you,” he said.
She tucked her hair away and crossed her arms. “You’re late.”
Betty’s nearly crawling out of her skin by the time she manages to escape, and drives over to Sunnyside just a little past two in the afternoon. She doesn’t bother to text him first – he’d said Sure in response to her earlier question, which was good enough for her – and Jughead looks surprised when he opens the door.
He’s even more surprised when she launches herself at him, kicking the door shut behind them with the heel of her shoe.
read chapter six on ao3.
(or start from the beginning.)
“What about you? What would you do, if you did it all again?”
Betty pauses, running her finger along the spine of the book. “I have no idea. I don’t think I’ve ever been free enough to know that.”
He thinks, suddenly, of an essay he wrote for his drug dealing sophomore year English teacher, Mr. Phillips. What does freedom mean to you?
Jughead tries to recall what he wrote about. Maybe about his name—yeah, definitely something about breaking a generational cycle. We are not our parents, he remembers—maybe it was the opening line, maybe the closing one. Either way, Mr. Phillips circled it and wrote something cheeky about only being fifteen years old and having a lot of life left to be proved wrong.
Life has proved him wrong, but not about avoiding the cliche of the self-fulfilling prophecy. Jughead doesn’t believe that you can outrun your past, nor that it dictates your future. The only proof he needs for this theory is sitting right in front of him, thumbing through his book and staining her fingers with old blue ink from its margins.
Betty’s head pops up. It makes her a bit dizzy, so focused is she on filling out her scantron sheet, eyes zooming to and from her test booklet, that she momentarily forgot she was here in this lecture hall, taking this Physics 101 exam.
“Hey.”
Down by the whiteboard, Professor Flutesnoot seems pretty preoccupied with a stack of papers, so she lets her eyes roam.
The voice is coming from behind her—it’s the guy with the hat and the curl that falls just so over his temple, the one she’d thought of when Veronica asked if there were any cute guys in her classes.
'I think I'm going to leave the Harpies,' said Ginny.
Harry turned slightly, the headboard creaking behind his shoulders. 'And go with another team?'
'No,' she said vaguely, staring at the opposite wall. At her breast, baby Al nursed, drifting off to sleep. 'No, I think I'm finished with Quidditch completely.'
'OK…' said Harry slowly, and she could tell he was thinking very carefully. 'Bad training session today?'
'Yeah,' she said, and she was surprised to find that admitting it did not upset her much. 'You know… I don't think it's been the same since I had James, let alone Al. Sometimes it's good and I think it's better, but then the same issues just keep coming up, over and over again.' She paused, and he waited patiently. 'It might all be in my head,' she conceded.
'Doesn't mean it's not real,' he said. 'Go on.'
'I just… I have bad days, occasionally, you know? Where the Quaffle just seems to go wide with every throw. Everyone does. No one is perfect all the time. But I feel like recently…' she shook her head vaguely, dozens of examples flitting through her mind, 'it's always a much worse sin when I do it than when someone else does. Maybe it's because I've been there longer, or maybe it's because I have kids and it's a sexism thing, or maybe they just don't like me, I don't know, but it feels like some.people on the team get away with bad days and then some of us, like me and like Ellen, don't. Do you know what Carol said to me today? Did I tell you already?'
'No,' said Harry quietly. He had a slight frown on his face, listening closely.
'I dropped the Quaffle, it was stupid, I know, but I dropped it and she started having a go, and I said sorry on instinct - and I was sorry, really - and she just yelled "don't be sorry, be better" and zoomed off.'
Harry laughed slightly, and she was relieved. 'What an obnoxious thing to say.'
'Isn't it?' she said gratefully. 'I wasn't sure if I was being ridiculous but it's so belittling. And if it was that on it's own I could cope, she's always been a bit prickly, a bit full of herself, I know that…'
She looked down at her son, who might have been asleep if it were not for the slight quiver of his chin as he continued to feed she stroked his hair - it was beautifully soft, and a bit wavy. Often it stuck up at strange angles. She was sure it would be messy like Harry's.
'...But I'm just so tired,' she admitted.
'I know,' he said sympathetically. 'I'm sorry. I am too, but I know you're the one feeding him. It will get better.'
She nodded, though she felt a lump rise in her throat. All babies were different, she knew that. Everyone said it. Everyone had a lot to say. A lot of advice. A lot of thoughts. A lot of opinions. If she heard anymore she would scream.
'I'm just so tired and maybe that's why I'm not playing well and I'm not trying to make excuses or whinge I just honestly am trying my best and they make me feel like absolute shit, they really do, Harry, even when they're trying to help - I end up so defensive and miserable-'
'Ginny, it's all right,' he interrupted reassuringly. He could not hold her hand while she fed their son, but he shifted closer and kissed the side of her head.
'I don't want to juggle all this anymore,' she said. 'I always thought I wouldn't be a woman who gave up her career for her kids, but in not going to cling onto it when it makes me miserable out of feminist pride. I don't think the team wants me there either, and I'm not just saying that out of some sort of self pity. There have been too many things like today, and I am so sick of being told they didn't really mean it like that or they're just having a hard time or it's just because it means so much to them. If I'm not playing well, and they've run out of patience, and the training isn't even fun anymore… that's that then, isn't it?'
'You don't enjoy any of it anymore?'
'Some of it. Not enough.' She looked back across the room again, and for a brief moment she was on the windswept pitch again. 'I'm lonely when I'm there.'
'It can be lonely as a parent,' he agreed. 'Even when you're around other parents too.'
'I'm happy really,' she said. 'Don't get me wrong. You can be exhausted and struggling but still happy. But I'm not happy there anymore. And I once was, that's what's so sad. I don't know if it's because I'm a different person or what.'
'Maybe you've just outgrown it.'
'Maybe.'
Albus squirmed slightly, trying to roll back, and she very carefully sat up, easing him into the cot that attached to the side of their bed. In either forty five minutes or three hours, she knew, he would wake. He would cry until she nursed him back to sleep. Harry did not have work tomorrow so might pace the creaking floorboards with him, but they both knew it: he would cry until he was nursed back to sleep.
For now, she sank back down into the covers and into Harry's waiting arms. At some point in the night James would probably creep in and, without any consideration for their comfort or needed rest, wriggle his way between them.
'I'm finished with it,' she whispered. 'What do you think?'
He kissed her forhead. 'Yeah,' he whispered back. 'Rest for a while. Then find something else that makes you happy.'
Relief flooded her, though she had not realised that she had been worried about it. She nodded. 'I'll quit tomorrow.'
Harry pointed his wand at the lamp, and they were plunged into comforting darkness. She head the slight movement of him putting the wand on his bedside table, and then she nestled back against him, his heart thumping reassuringly beneath her ear.
'Will you still fancy me when I'm no longer in Quidditch robes?' she asked.
She felt him twitch in silent laughter. 'Can't you keep a set?'
theartofmadeline
gamechangershow
turnnoffyourmind
kianamaiart
amandla
izzy806
