Hello! I love the way you write the Weasley dynamic, your family fics really are so lovely, so thank you for writing them! I'll read anything you write but I'd really love it if you were to write something about Arthur and Percy, post-war, like them reconciling? It's such an interesting relationship and I'd love to see your interpretation of it :)
Thank you so much, you’re very kind :) I hope this nonsense meets with your approval! [read on AO3]
“Who’sthat coming now?”
It’s sortof a rhetorical question: everyone they’re expecting for Sunday lunch hasalready arrived, barring Percy and Audrey. And, given that The Burrow hassecurity wards which prevent anyone who isn’t on a pre-approved list crossingthe boundary (courtesy of some family connections to the Auror Department), itcould only really be the two of them.
Well,three, technically. Audrey is carrying baby Molly, who is wrapped up in ahand-knitted blanket (courtesy of her namesake), and beams at them as she walksup the garden path. She looks the picture of maternal bliss, even more so whenshe’s implored to take a seat, no, honestly, right there, and would she like adrink? Something to snack on? Would she like to put her feet up, rest a while?Everyone else will look after her gorgeous daughter for her, it’s fine (clearlythe namesake wins this battle, taking baby Molly from her and immediatelysnuggling her into her arms with a long-practised sigh of contentment).
“I said, who’s that?” George repeats, undeterredby the lack of enthusiasm for his set up. “Is it Percy, or is it a packhorse?”
If hiswife’s load is simply the baby, Percy has: two enormous, overstuffed bags, outof the top of one is flowing several spare babygrows; a carrycot; two towels; achanging mat; a packet of nappies; three stuffed animals; two rattles; whatappears to be some kind of mobile, which he’s slung around his neck like it’s apiece of avant-garde jewellery; another handknitted blanket; a muslin clothover his shoulder, and Audrey’s handbag.
Red facedand sweating, he deposits all of this on the kitchen table. It takes a while,and his brothers watch in grave silence as he does it. When everything is linedup, he nods in satisfaction and turns back to them. “Ah, Harry!” he says,spotting him among the sea of gingers. “Just the man. Did you manage to getthat report to Kingsley on Friday?”
“You’ve…um…you’vegot…” Harry gestures to his own left shoulder, and Percy mirrors him.
“Ah, yes,”he says, the pink flush on his cheeks intensifying. “I was wondering where thatone had got to.” He removes the muslin cloth and sets it down on top of one ofthe overstuffed bags, which immediately topples over, spilling its entirecontents of baby paraphernalia all over the kitchen floor. There’s a cough, whichmight be a laugh, from Charlie, and Percy mutters something which just might bea curse word very quietly.
He flickshis wand at it, and everything flies back inside—neatly folded—and the bagrights itself. “So, Harry,” he says, dusting down his trousers. “That report?Only, the Minister wanted to be able to give a full and frank report to thePeruvian embassy by Tuesday, which will only be possible if—”
“I’msorry, are you planning on moving in?” Ron asks, staring at the pile now coveringthe kitchen table in horrified fascination.
“Of coursenot,” Percy says stiffly. “I just like to be prepared. As I was saying, by Tuesday,and then he wants to arrange a meeting with—”
“For what,the apocalypse?” asks George.
Percytakes a deep breath. “For any eventuality,” he says, teeth clearly gritted.“Now, the report must—”
“Yes, Igot it to him,” Harry says quickly. “Everything’s all sorted, don’t you worry. So…anyonesee the match yesterday? How ’bout them Tornados?!”
Whateveranyone might have thought about the Tornados is lost as one of the bags—the onethat hadn’t fallen on the floor—suddenly starts moving from side to side, withwhat sounds like muffled groaning coming from within. “Uh…guys…” says Charlie,who was closest. “Anyone checked on the Ghoul lately?”
“Bagsie Iget to use the highly trained Auror as a shield!” George says, pushing Ron infront of him.
“Oi, Harry’sone as well, you know!” he says indignantly.
“You’re onyour own there, mate,” says Harry, eying the bag—which is slowly moving itselfto the edge of the table—with some alarm.
“Yes, andbesides, I’m less scared of what Hermione’d do to me if I injured you in theline of duty than what Ginny’d do if I injured him in the line of duty,” explainsGeorge.
“That’s…prettyreasonable,” puts in Charlie, eying the two of them (and looking like he’sgetting ready to dive into the pantry if the bag does start heading in hisdirection).
Percy digsinside the bag, extracts what is apparently some musical, moving toy (“Who didthey get to do the singing, Auntie Muriel?” asks George) and switches it off. Hisbrothers silently watch as he stuffs it back inside the bag (along with threeextra babygrows and two books on raising a newborn which had to come out tomake room for it).
That done,he dusts off his hands, and turns back to Harry. “So. The Peruvian delegation. The Minister and I have discussedthis, and we agree that—”
“That’sit,” Bill says, finally getting to his feet. “We’re staging an intervention.”
“Excellentidea,” says Ron, and he and Charlie grab one of Percy’s arms each and push himinto the chair Bill has just vacated.
“Percy,old chap,” says Bill. “Look.” Hegestures to the small mountain of stuff Percy has placed on the table. “Really look at all of this.”
“Yes,”Percy says, with as much dignity as a man can muster when two of his brothersare pinning him down in a chair. “I see. There are one or two things there. However,as a father yourself, I’m sure you of all people understand that it isnecessary to always be prepared for any eventuality, especially when—”
“Get himup, lads,” Bill says, then gestures for Ron and Charlie to frogmarch him overto the window. “Look.”
Out in thegarden, the Weasley women are still sitting with Audrey and baby Molly. “Lookat my wife,” Bill continues. He has his back to George, but still manages tosense that he has opened his mouth at this. “Don’t. Now, on her lap you will see a child. Our child.” Fleurdoes, it is true, have a firm grip on Victoire, who is absolutely fascinated bythe new toy that is her baby cousin. “You will note that, by her feet, there isa bag.” This, too, is true. “A bag that is at least half the size of that onethere.”
“A third,I’d say,” Ron puts in.
“In thatbag,” Bill says, “there is one spare of everything our daughter wearing.”
“And Mr Flamey,”adds Charlie.
“Who?”asks George.
“Dragon,”says Charlie. “She was showing me, before you got here.”
“Ah.”
“And MrFlamey the stuffed dragon,” Bill allows. “Now, that is more than I would’vecarried around in my young, unwed days, to be sure. It is not, however, halfthe contents of our house. We have a toddler: she is capable of running veryfast when she wants to, usually into enormous messes. Molly, delightful as she is,cannot even sit up on her own accord. We are all here for Sunday lunch. Atmost, we will be here for four hours. Why is it, therefore, that you need tobring so much stuff that you could feasibly survive for six months on the moonwith no other human contact?”
Percy glares.“Each item has a specific purpose!”
“And theyare?”
“Would youlike me to go alphabetically, or strategically?”
They’reinterrupted, then, by the arrival of Arthur.
“Ah, helloboys,” he says, surveying the scene. “What’s going on here, then?” His cheerfultone is unchanging, but his sons start shifting around awkwardly anyway.
“We’restaging an intervention,” says George as Ron and Charlie quickly drop Percy’s arms.
“Anintervention! Excellent. Into what?” their father asks, smiling politely.
“This!”say at least four voices, gesturing at the kitchen table.
“Oh, Isee,” he says, affecting to have only just seen the enormous pile. “What isthis all for then?”
Percyturns puce. Harry makes himself recite the Aurors Code of Practise, backwards,to keep his face poker straight, but Percy’s brothers are not that kind, andlaughter rings out through the kitchen.
“Seriously, Perce,” says George. “Havesome faith in yourself. At most, you’d only get through three babygrows in anhour, and that’s if we have a repeat of The Incident.”
“What’sThe Incident?”
“The onewhere I was babysitting Vic when she was six months old, and I had to changeher, only there wasn’t any spare clothes I could find, so I had to wrap her in myshirt, but then—”
“I really don’tthink we need to hear this story again, especially when we’re going to beeating in about half an hour.”
“How come I haven’t heard this story?! I’m herfather!”
“Okay, butdid Audrey ask you to bring all of this?”
“No,really, what’s The Incident? I think I have a right to know”
“…becausewhen she came to Victoire’s birthday party a couple of weeks ago, I saw her—shehad a bag smaller than the one Fleur’s got now, and I don’t think—”
“TheIncident, guys!”
“Fatherhood,”Percy shouts, “is a very important job and I am going to do it right! And if that means beingoverprepared, then it means being overprepared! If I say we need all of this,we need all of this! And you can all…be quiet!”
Everyoneis immediately quiet. This allows for Audrey’s voice to drift through thewindow, talking about how happy and lucky she feels that, so far, everythinghas been so straightforward, and that Molly is such a good, easy baby.
Arthur looksat the dark circles under his son’s eyes. He sees his jumper, with itssuspicious stain on the left side. He recalls how, at work, Percy’s once plain,totally unadorned office now has photos of baby Molly on every possible surface.And he takes in the mountain of stuffthat is currently all over his kitchen table.
“Boys,” hesays, “go out there and ask your mother if she needs anything done for dinner. Ithink we must be nearly ready to think about serving up.” His tone is cheerfuland upbeat still, but there is a firmness to it which makes everyone obey, andthey shuffle out of the kitchen.
“Not you, Percy,” he adds quietly. “Come on,”he says, once they’re gone. He picks up two of the bags and tries not to winceat their weight. “Pick this lot up and follow me.” Even with his father’s help,Percy’s still staggering under all the items, but he dutifully follows hisfather round the side of the garden to his shed.
“Come on,”Arthur says, seeing Percy hesitate. He pushes open the door and gestures to himto follow him inside.
The shedhas always been Dad’s space, all of the Weasley children knew that almost frombirth. You did not go inside without express permission—and once you were inside,no matter how tempted you were, you did not touch anything. As far back as any of them could remember, every singleshelf was covered with incredibly tempting stuff—mostlymuggle items, a few of them useful, many of them not. From his prized possession(a working car battery) to the tiniest trinkets, everything had its place.
And it wasn’tjust Dad’s junk, either—genuinely useful things (the toilet plunger, forty-sixdifferent screwdrivers, instruction manuals for devices long broken, theChristmas decorations) were kept in there, but woe betide anyone who went ineven in the most genuine emergency to get something without permission. Theshed was overstuffed (magic, Percy allowed, probably helped here) and everysurface was always covered with something, but Dad could always lay his hands onthe most esoteric items in a heartbeat.
Today isno different, except for the fact that one shelf, on the far wall, iscompletely empty. In this always packed room, it stands out like a sore thumb. “Nowthen,” says Dad, “I’ve cleared a space.” He nods towards the empty shelf as thoughit’s perfectly normal, and not the first time in Percy’s life he’s seen the barewood.
“What for?”
“I assumeyou have doubles of everything at home?” Dad asks, gesturing towards Percy’s manybags.
He nods.
“Excellent,”Dad says, smiling. “So, what I suggest is that you leave everything here. Thatway, whenever you come here, you don’t have to worry about packing everythingup, you can just bring the baby and go. You don’t need to worry about bringing thekitchen sink, eh? All your bits and bobs already here, and a load of your mind,yes?”
“But…”
“Come on,look, I’ve cleared you a shelf! Let’s see, if we put that carrycot at the farend, then we can stack some of the smaller items inside of it. How does thatsound?”
“Thatsounds…good,” Percy says. He gives his father a tentative smile. “And…andmaybe just three changes of outfit will be enough to keep here. I’ll take therest back with me.”
“Bettermake it four, just to be on the safe side,” Dad says cheerfully.
They setto, getting everything stacked up on the shelf and leaving a small pile over bythe door for Percy to take back home with him. It’s the work of mere moments,and everything is neatly placed almost before he realises. The shelf is fullagain, only this time with baby things, and not hardware.
“Excellent,”Dad says, slapping him on the back. “All done. Now, d’you reckon we can go andchivvy the others into producing some food? I’m quite hungry after all that.”
“Oh, Icleared it off when I say you coming,” says Dad. “I thought you might need aspace for little Molly’s stuff, so I got it ready for you. What was it yousaid? Being a good father is about being prepared, right?”
“Dad…”Percy says, sounding a little choked up. “You don’t need to take lessons from anyone on being a good father, least ofall me.”
“Who saidanything about any lessons?” Dad says mildly. “It’s just being practical. Andprepared.”
“Two keyDad skills,” Percy acknowledges.
“Well,yes,” says Arthur. “And ones you have in spades! Isn’t little Molly lucky?”
Percygrins. “She is,” he says. He steers his Dad towards the door. “Me, too.”
The main thing that happens when a baby is born, George discovers, is tears. The baby cries—the baby howls—such a huge sound from such a tiny thing, and yeah, okay, maybe if you’d just been ripped from inside the only thing you’d ever known, you’d cry too. Fleur cries, but that’s also probably allowed, because she was the one who was ripped apart. And Bill cries, probably because Fleur has a grip like a basilisk. That’s maybe legitimate, too.
But everyone, everyone else cries, crowded around the hospital bed, beaming down at Fleur, beautiful Madonna with her precious infant, and George just can’t. He hasn’t cried since the day of Fred’s funeral, when he cried enough for a lifetime. Literally. There is nothing that could possibly be worse than that day, nothing else that will ever be deserving of tears. So for almost two years, he hasn’t cried. It’s simple.
His is the only dry eye as the baby is passed around. Mum and Charlie, who will weep for England at the drop of a hat, have been at it since they were allowed in to meet her. Others, like Hermione, keep pushing away the tears, clearly trying to pull themselves together and never quite managing it. As he watches, Ron pulls her in close, kissing her forehead so her eyes close, and yet more tears fall. And in the other corner, Percy and Dad are doing some kind of glasses-cleaning thing that fools no one, least of all when Dad puts a hand on Percy’s shoulder, which suddenly starts to shake. George looks away, feeling suddenly like a voyeur. The thing about not crying for two years is that when you see other people doing it, it feels oddly personal and maybe a bit shameful, like you’ve walked in on them in the bathroom.
Someone, Harry, maybe, asks about names, and an expectant silence fills the room. Fleur and Bill exchange looks, and Bill nods, stepping back. It is clear to everyone that this is Fleur’s day, and she basks in the attention, arranging the baby’s blanket just so. “We ’ad a name chosen,” she says slowly, “we were going to call her Marielle. But...we talked, earlier. We thought...” And she trails off, looking at her husband.
It’s obvious that something significant is coming. For a second, George is so certain that they’re going to call the child Fred he almost laughs, but instead pinches the inside of his elbow and looks at the ground, refusing to look at Bill as he speaks. “Neither of us believe in...I don’t know what you’d call it. Cosmic signs. Divine intervention. But we thought...we thought, it cannot be a coincidence that she was born today. Two years after...well, you know. But she’s going to grow up with all this behind her. She’ll be safe and happy and whole. So...”
Fleur speaks again, now. “I always wanted ’er to ’ave a French name, to mark that part of ’er heritage. And so we shall call her Victoire.” Someone gives the tiniest gasp. “It is, ’ow you say, Victoria. But it is also—”
“Victory.”
Bill says it with such formality, and everyone responds as one, a low roar of approval. Words and voices can’t be distinguished, but it cannot be clearer: this is A Good Thing. George feels like he’s been hit by a Bludger. The roar of approval gets louder, suddenly, and he looks up to see Fleur looking at Ginny, reaching out to her, Ginny looking stunned—but pleased—and he realises that they must be asking if she would like to be Godmother, or maybe the middle-name, or maybe who the fuck knows what.
He doesn’t care about that, he cares about nothing except the anger rising and rising and rising, and he’s going to explode, going to punch someone, going to yell louder than the baby, the child, the victory. How could they? How could they?
“George?” Ron’s voice sounds far away, and George can’t quite understand, at first, the look on his brother’s face. Then he gets it: confusion. Ron is confused about why he might feel angry about this stupid decision his stupid brother has made. Now everyone else is looking at him, staring like he’s the misfit, the what-doesn’t-belong in this happy picture.
He can’t stand it.
He pushes back, marching out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The last thing he hears is a loud, indignant wail from the baby, and he can’t bring himself to feel even the slightest twinge of guilt about it. She has everyone looking after her every need, soothing her, being there with her. He has no one—or at least, he doesn’t have the person he needs most.
So he might as well have no one.
*
He shuts himself in his room back at Mum and Dad’s, intending to ignore everyone for the next week or so until he feels marginally better about the whole situation. That lasts for the next, oh, forty-five minutes, until Ron arrives back.
“Fuck off, Ron,” he says, when his brother lets himself in. He’s locked the door, but he is an Auror. “I mean it. Fuck off, or I’ll curse the fucking door closed.”
“Then I’ll get Bill to come and blast it down. Cursebreaker, remember?”
“Bill’s a dick.”
“Bill’s a dad.” Ron’s so earnest, and it’s not meant to be a joke, but it sounds so silly that George almost grins, until he remembers that he’s really, really mad at his brother. Which one doesn’t really matter.
“Still a dick.”
“Whatever,” Ron dismisses this with a wave of a hand. “You need to go and apologise to him.”
George splutters. “Why?”
“Because Bill’s a dick, but you’re a bigger dick.” George opens his mouth to make the obvious, juvenile comment—habit, more than anything—but Ron cuts him off. “No,” he says, and George shrinks back, startled. Ron doesn’t get angry, often, but when he does, he means it. “You have to. I get it. You’re mad because they called her victory, but, fucking hell, what else could they do?! Think about it. Poor kid’s never going to have a birthday. In her entire fucking life. What the fuck were they going to call her? Tragedy? Funeral? Death?”
He almost snarls this last, breathing heavily, and George doesn’t know what surprises him more, the fact that Ron gets it, or that he so clearly doesn’t. Victoire, victory, however you say it, it’s an insult to everyone who died, or who nearly did, or worse.
And it’s the truth. It’s what they were, ultimately. Victorious. Some victory.
Ron’s silent for a good few minutes, the only sound the gradual slowing and calming of his breathing. And then, very quietly, he says, “I don’t know if I like it. Victory...it just...it sounds wrong. But it’s not about me. It’s not even about Bill and Fleur, really. It’s about her. And it’s what she deserves, right?”
George sighs. “I guess.” The annoying thing about Ron, these days, is how often he’s right. Not that he’ll ever tell him that. He just gives him incremental salary rises every time he does something remotely helpful to him. At this rate, he’ll be earning more than the Minister of Magic by Christmas.
“Look,” Ron says bracingly. “Bill’s on his own now, he’s gone back to Shell Cottage to get some more clothes for Fleur. She needs to stay at the hospital a while longer—”
“Why?” George asks, his head shooting up. “Is there something wrong with her, or the baby?” The fear is sudden and all-consuming and takes him by surprise.
It appears to take Ron by surprise, too, but his voice is steady as he explains. “Apparently it’s standard procedure. New mothers and babies generally spend a couple of days in hospital, even if things have gone well, which they did. They’re both fine, but apparently fine is relative if you’ve just, y’know. Pushed a Quaffle out your—”
“Okay.”
“So you’ll go and apologise to Bill?”
“Fine.”
*
“That you, Gin?”
“...well, I guess it would be more insulting if you called me Percy, but—”
“Oh, it’s you.” The thing about Bill is that he’s always had this completely inscrutable tone of voice, where you’re never sure if his next sentence is going to be a declaration of eternal love, or an intention to murder your nearest and dearest. It kind of freaks George out.
“Can you hold this for a moment?” He doesn’t wait for a response, simply holding out something soft and yellow, and George accepts it, before realising it’s a baby’s outfit. It is the tiniest item of clothing he has ever seen.
He doesn’t realise he’s said this out loud until something in Bill seems to soften. “She’s so small. I thought I’d remembered from when you all were kids but...she’s so small.”
“Well...I guess you were smaller, then, too.” Bill grunts in response to this rather pathetic comment, going back to sifting through a bag positioned on the big armchair. Clearly not finding what he’s looking for, he shifts his attention to another bag, this one on the sofa. George looks around the living room, and realises there are two or three more bags dotted around the room.
“Now I know I’ve never had a kid myself, but I thought you were only supposed to pack one hospital bag?”
“Oh, you know Fleur,” Bill says vaguely.
George snorts. “That makes sense. Gotta have the right outfit, yeah?”
“Watch it,” says Bill, who was once savaged by a werewolf. “That’s my wife.”
George swallows, but holds his brother’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says. “And I’m sorry about earlier. Really sorry.”
Bill nods slowly. “I’m...I’m sorry we maybe sprung that on you,” he says. “To be fair, Fleur and I had only decided a few hours before. We thought it would be...well, we didn’t intend to be disrespectful, at any rate.”
George moves a bag and sinks down in the chair. Bill sits on the floor opposite him, and George can suddenly see how tired his brother looks. His brother’s a dad now. How ridiculous! A laugh bubbles upside him, and he bites his cheek to make it go away.
“Y’know, when you were doing the announcement, I was sure for a second that you were going to call her Fred,” he says instead.
“A girl named Fred?”
“Fredericka’s nice.”
Bill looks at him sceptically, before grinning. “Freda.”
“Frederbelle.”
“Fredette.”
George snorts. “I’m glad you didn’t.” A pause. “I think Victoria’s a nice name. Even Victoire sounds okay. If you’re, y’know, French.” He crosses his eyes as he says this, making it clear it’s a joke. “But victory? I just don’t know...” He looks at his brother, willing him to understand how much this bit isn’t a joke.
Bill looks away first, closing his eyes, and it takes him so long to respond that George actually wonders if he’s fallen asleep. It wouldn’t exactly be undeserved, given his past twenty four hours. But then, eventually, he says something.
“I miss Fred,” he says simply. “I know you are the last person I need to explain that better to. I know you, more than any of us, get it. But I miss Fred every single day. Everyone says ‘oh, but we won, in the end!’ but it doesn’t feel like a win, when I think of him. Every time I look at little Teddy Lupin, it doesn’t feel like we won. You know?” George nods. Of course he knows. “Do you want to know what I think, though?”
George braces himself for some bullshit about how Fred’s looking down on them, about how Fred would want everyone to move on and be happy, George in particular, blah blah blah. He’s more than heard it all before, and he doesn’t need to hear it again. Bill’s an eldest child, though. He’ll tell you anyway.
“I think that every day the rest of us are still here is a victory. Every time you don’t give up, give in, you win. Every day—every hour, if that’s what it takes. And I need her to know that sometimes, just existing is a victory. Never mind anything else. Just living—that’s the victory. That’s the win.”
“She will.” George says this with more certainty than he’s ever said anything in his life, and he realises how much he means it as the words tumble out. “She will know all that. Because I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her about Fred, but I’ll tell her that first. Because you’re right.”
Sometimes eldest siblings know what they’re talking about. (But only sometimes.)
Bill reaches over, claps him on the back, then leaves his hand there. “Thanks, kid,” he says, somewhat hoarsely.
“And then I’ll tell her where we keep the good dungbombs.” Bill snorts with laughter, and maybe a few tears come out too, and maybe that’s why George maybe—maybe—lets one fall too.
prompt from this list [ffnet | AO3], requested by @perquisitesofinfamy which I am v. glad about as it allows me to indulge my love of hot dad annoyingly cool father Bill Weasley. ahem. tw: smoking/drinking references
She thinks she’s got away with it. She closes the back door with no sound whatsoever, removes her heels and tiptoes across the hallway in near total silence, but then—
“Go back to sleep,” Dad murmurs at her from the sofa. She winces. Busted.
“Sure,” she murmurs back. “Just getting some water...” She hears Dad shift about, but he doesn’t reply, and so she thinks, once again, that she’s got away with it until—
“Dominique? Is that you?”
“No, it’s Victoire!” she tries, and she hears him snort. She stops trying to creep down the hallway, stands in the doorway to the living room, heels in hand, and watches as Dad flicks his wand at the lights until they glow softly.
He sits upright, looking at her sternly, and she’s suddenly very aware of how much she smells of smoke and the red wine stain on her dress. And that’s annoying—she hates red wine, she’s not her mother after all, but her best friend is a sloppy-drunk, and she can write off another item of clothing thanks to her, unless Grandma Weasley can work her magic with the cleaning charms. But right now, it’s nearly three hours past her curfew and she thinks that Dad isn’t going to care too much about all that.
“What time is it?” he asks, sounding much more awake.
“Half-past three,” she replies, cringing. Honestly, she’s seventeen. Of age. An adult. And she has a curfew.
“And what time did we ask you to be home by?”
“One,” she sighs, “but look, I’m—”
“Seventeen, I know,” Dad says. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
She blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“Did you have a good night?” he asks, ignoring this. Slowly, she nods, unsure if it’s a trick question. One false move and she’ll probably be grounded for the rest of the summer holiday. “Oh, good,” he says, sounding genuinely pleased. “I had a great time, summer after sixth year. I think I spent about five minutes of it at Gran and Grandad’s house, but hey. It’s good to know some things don’t change.”
She nods again, because, really, what can she say to this? “And you’re definitely better than your sister at sneaking back in. She used to make an awful racket.”
Dominique snorts. “You still heard me, though,” she points out.
Dad points to his ears. “Supersonic hearing,” he says gravely.
“Super-wolfy hearing,” she says, finally realising why he’s downstairs on the sofa, rather than in bed. She should’ve spotted the full moon—she’s been outside most of the night, after all. “Is the pain bad, this month?” she asks.
“Not really,” he replies. “Bit of a twinge in the old scars, but it’s not bad, this month. Just got a bit of insomnia, that’s all, so I thought I’d come down here to give your poor mother some rest. She doesn’t need me tossing and turning all night, keeping her awake.”
“I bet she’s already been down eleventy-billion times to check up on you, though,” she says. It was the recurring theme of her childhood: holding Victoire’s hand as they stood at the top of the stairs whilst Maman crept down at all hours every full moon, checking on their father. He wasn’t a werewolf, they had been told as soon as they were old enough to understand what those words meant, but he had been attacked by one during the war, and that meant that he was sometimes a bit poorly on the full moon. As she got older, she learnt that “a bit poorly” could mean anything from a touch of insomnia to moans of pain so incoherent and awful that she would’ve been terrified if her mother hadn’t been there with a reassuring smile to tell them it would all be okay in the morning.
And she’d always been right.
“Twice, but yes,” he grins. “Now, young lady,” he adds, voice turning mock-stern again. “Have you been drinking?!”
“Just a couple of beers, and that was hours ago,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And I certainly wasn’t going to have any more than that; the toilet facilities were so questionable.”
“Truly, you are your mother’s daughter,” he says, grinning at the snobbish way her nose wrinkles. “But: you need a glass of water inside you before you go to bed. No arguments! Go and put your pyjamas on, and I’ll sort it for you.”
She does as she’s told, and when she gets back into the living room she finds not just the water glass but a plate of biscuits, too. “I don’t have the munchies,” she says, rolling her eyes again.
“Just wanted to be sure,” Dad says. “I can take them away though, that’s not—”
“Well, I’ll just have one,” she concedes, reaching for the plate. They are chocolate-chip, after all. Dad pats the sofa, and she sits down next to him, biscuit in one hand and water in the other. He throws the blanket over her legs as she sips her water. “Honestly, this is such terrible parenting,” she jokes.
“It is?” Dad asks. “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Underage daughter sneaks home hours past curfew, smelling of cigarettes and alcohol, father catches her in the act, asks to be caught up on all the gossip.”
“It wasn’t quite like that,” Dad laughs, “but if you do want me to go full Uncle Percy on you, I can.” She shudders. “I thought so,” he says, and they both laugh. Neither of them speak as she finishes her water.
“Listen,” Dad says, when she reaches down to place the glass on the floor and pull the blanket around her more tightly. “When I was young—”
“Back in the stone age, I know,” she says, snuggling further into the sofa.
“Oi! But yes, back in ye olden times, when I went out in my pantaloons to drink grog and listen to the court jester as we danced to a harpsichord—”
“I think that was about twenty-five historical periods you just squashed into one, but okay—”
“The point is,” Dad says seriously, “I went out and had fun and did maybe a few daft things, but no stupid things. So as long as you’re doing the same...well, I’d be a hypocrite to stop you, wouldn’t I?”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“You’re seventeen,” he shrugs. “It’s totally normal to go out with your friends and have fun in the summer. Your Mum and I don’t have a problem with it, as long as you let us know where you’re going.. Ditto drinking—don’t get hammered, and watch out that no one puts something in your glass when you’re not looking, but a few beers here and there is nothing to write home about. As for the smoking—I’d rather you didn’t, because I know you say it’s only social but that’s how habits form. I should know. And if you are going to, it’d be nice if you could replace the packets you steal from my stash.”
“Point taken,” she says, squirming. “God,” she adds, sighing. “You make it so difficult for me to rebel. Rude.”
Dad laughs. Three weeks ago, she’d come home with her nose pierced and all Maman had said was “You will have to take zhat out before we go for Sunday lunch at your Grandmuzzer’s. She will accuse me of being a terrible parent because of it, and frankly I do not ’ave the time for zhat argument!” Dad had just told her not to worry, Grandma was still trying to get over the hole in his ear and so wouldn’t make it round to complaining about the one in her nose for at least another fifteen years, twenty if she was lucky.
“Well,” he says, “we’ll have to see if you turn out to be a total train-wreck in the end. But I could ban you from leaving the house after eight, make you drink nothing stronger than orange juice for the rest of your natural life and insist on measuring your skirts to check they’re hitting your knees but—”
“I’d kill you?”
“But I think you can be too strict as a parent. Look at Molly, she’s having to hide her new boyfriend from Uncle Percy because he doesn’t want her dating before she’s thirty!” Dad says.
“Oh, we’re conveniently forgetting the whole Ted-and-Victoire debacle, are we?” Dominique asks.
“Dom, kid,” he sighs, “I’ve no trouble with you having a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Or twelve, or none. It’s all good. But. If you end up snogging him or her so much it gets in the national news, we will have words. Then you’ll find out who’s strict and who isn’t!”
“I’ll be sure to rub that in Vic’s face next time I see her,” she says, shifting downwards so she’s curled in a ball on the sofa. She can feel her eyes closing, sleep coming for her, until—
“Wait a minute, how did you know about Molly’s boyfriend?!” she asks, sitting up.
Dad looks guilty for a second. “Your mother told me,” he says, “and she got it from Auntie Ginny, who I think can charm a brick wall into telling her the gossip.” She lies back down. That sounds very likely. “So just remember, kid,” he adds. “You can pull the wool over my eyes, sometimes, but don’t ever think your Aunt Ginny will let you get away with hiding something.”
Dominique laughs sleepily. “You won’t say anything to Uncle Percy about him, will you?”
“Of course not,” Dad says. There’s a long pause, and she thinks he might have fallen asleep, until he adds softly, “But I have been introducing him to the idea slowly, by taking him to the pub to talk about how truly terrible it is when your beautiful baby daughters grow up to do things like have boyfriends, or become wonderful human beings.”
She smiles to herself.
The sofa shifts as Dad stands up, and he tucks the blanket in around her. “Go to sleep, Dom,” he says, kissing her forehead.
I wrote this a few years ago, but I still like it (unusual), so I’m crossposting it here. You can read the original version on ffnet here.
It's the day everyone has been waiting for: Harry Potter is about to marry Ginny Weasley, in front of all their family and friends. But before Harry can do that, he has to find out why the last person he'd expect to be there has arrived, and why they insist on talking to Harry before the wedding goes ahead...
"I've been looking all over for you two!" Both Harry and Ron turned at the sound of Hermione's voice, and Ron's jaw dropped. Hermione was dressed in robes of glittering gold, carrying a bouquet of the reddest roses which matched her red heels. Her hair had been piled on top of her head in an artful up do, and her carefully applied make up accentuated her natural beauty.
"Wow, Hermione," Harry grinned at her. "You look gorgeous."
"Oi, Potter, this one's taken!" Ron said, slinking his arm around her waist and pointing to the diamond on the third finger of Hermione's left hand. "You're not leaving my sister on her wedding day for my fiancée!"
"Damn it, there go all my plans," Harry said, shaking his head mock-ruefully, but Ron was no longer paying him any attention.
"You look...beautiful," he said, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. Hermione's glowing smile grew even larger, and she flushed slightly.
"You haven't scrubbed up too badly yourself," she said, and Harry tactfully looked the other way.
"Ugh, disgusting! Honestly, if there's any day a bloke shouldn't have to be witness to a display like that, it's his wedding day!" Ron and Hermione broke apart to glare at George, who had just arrived.
"You're not getting married today," said Ron accusingly.
"Don't I know it," George sighed. "You should hear Mum... 'George dearest, when are you going to make an honest woman out of that lovely Angelina? Isn't it about time you two settled down?' You'd think she'd ease up now that we gave her a grandkid, but no... So thanks, Potter, for reminding her about how much fun planning a wedding is!" He glared at Harry.
"Sorry," replied Harry, not sounding it at all. "I'll try not to marry your sister again."
"Glad to hear it!" George said chummily. "Oh—Neville said to ask you if you've spoken to Harry about the thing yet? He sounded quite frantic poor chap – but then, it's Neville. He often does. Anyway, are you guys planning something, and if you are, can I be in on it?!"
"Nothing as exciting as that, I'm afraid," Hermione said with a small sigh. "Harry, there's been a slight change of plans."
"...is not a phrase any bloke wants to hear on his wedding day!" cut in George. Hermione silenced him with a look.
"You know Dean was going to pick up Dudley from in the village?" she asked.
Harry nodded. He had sent, mostly at Mrs. Weasley's behest, invitations to his only living relatives, but as he had expected, he had not heard anything from them. Two weeks before the wedding, however, Dudley had been in touch, saying he hadn't heard about the wedding before now but wanted to come, if Harry would have him. Harry, who got on best with Dudley out of all his relatives, had agreed, and they had worked out a plan to get him to the wedding.
He was to stay in a hotel in the Muggle part of Ottery St. Catchpole, and Dean Thomas, who was experienced in the Muggle world but not busy with wedding preparations on the day of the ceremony, like Hermione would be, would help him get past the extensive wards that had been placed on The Burrow. Harry wondered now if the thought of there being so much magic around had changed Dudley's mind. His experiences with the wizarding world had never exactly been good, after all...
"It's just that he's brought someone else along, too," Hermione said, biting her lip.
"A girlfriend?" She shook her head. "Oh, a boyfriend? Whatever, that's fine too—we've got plenty of space, and—"
"He's brought your Aunt Petunia," Hermione said. Harry thought for a moment he'd misheard her, but the serious look on her face told him she was telling the truth. Aunt Petunia at The Burrow?! It seemed more reasonable to imagine her on Mars...
"She said that she'd like to come to the wedding," Hermione continued. "If that was okay with you. I mean, I know you did invite her, but—"
"Where is she?" asked Harry.
"She's outside the wards, with Dean still – he sent Neville to find us and explain the situation," Hermione said. "Your Uncle isn't with her."
"She's outside the wards?" Harry repeated. He felt like pinching himself, to make sure this wasn't some strange dream. This wasn't how his wedding day was supposed to go... "I...does Ginny know?"
"I'm not sure," replied Hermione. "I don't think so. I can go and tell her, if you'd like?"
"No, I...leave it a moment," answered Harry. He knew exactly what Ginny would say to him about the situation – she'd leave it up to him to decide what to do.
"She's your Aunt, and it's up to you whether you invite her, never mind what Mum says," she'd said, when they were debating whether or not to send the invitation out, as her mother had requested. "I'll stand by you if you decide you want her there, but also if you decide you don't." Harry knew this was the truth, but he also knew Ginny's temper. She'd always said that she'd have a few choice words for Harry's Muggle relatives, were she ever to meet them...
"We can make her leave if you want," Ron said, slightly menacingly.
Harry hesitated. Ron, Hermione and George, who had kept quiet throughout the whole discussion, watched him carefully. Ron looked angry, Hermione concerned and George...George's face was inscrutable. "I—" he began eventually, but his response was cut off by a crash from the hallway, and Molly and Arthur's voices.
"—would turn up here, today of all days, when she isn't—"
Arthur, more soothingly: "But she was invited Molly; you said yourself that it was important to—"
"Yes, because it's polite—I'm not going to be taken for ill-mannered by that—oh, hello Harry dear," Molly gave what was perhaps meant to be a reassuring smile, though this was rather negated by the hair that was slipping wildly out of its up do and the red flush on her cheeks.
"Harry, Molly and I just thought you ought to know that—" began Arthur, but Harry cut across him.
"I've heard—my Aunt's here," he said. "Just outside, apparently?"
"We've brought her across the wards—Audrey's with her now, and I think Neville and...Hannah, is it? Yes, those two are there too," Arthur explained, and Harry found himself momentarily fixating on the hilarity of the Dursleys being passed from one magical guest to another. Audrey, at least, was Muggleborn, which should help put Dudley at ease—and besides he had shown the most interest in Harry's life since he had moved out of Privet Drive. Sticking poor Neville and Hannah with Aunt Petunia seemed like a recipe for disaster though – both of them were some of the nicest people Harry had ever met, but they had also both been raised in purely magical families and had no concept of how the Muggle world worked at all. Aunt Petunia would be horrified.
But then, what was she doing at Harry's wedding in the first place? They didn't even exchange Christmas cards (unlike he did with Dudley), and he'd only sent the invitation to her to please Molly. He asked this question of Arthur, who gave a shrug.
"Neville said that she'd told him she'd like to come, but she wanted to make sure you'd be okay with her being there," Hermione piped up. Harry felt even more perplexed—this was so out of character for Petunia that for a moment, he couldn't believe it was actually her. Hermione had picked up on this fact too, it seemed. "I've been thinking though – the press have been so desperate to get someone into this wedding, haven't they?"
There were general noises of agreement from around the room. One week before the wedding, it had been discovered that one of the employees of the company supplying the marquee had in fact been a gossip columnist from Witch Weekly who was attempting to infiltrate Harry and Ginny's very private ceremony. The issue had been dealt with, but it had made all of the Weasleys quite uneasy about the lengths to which the press would go to in order to get inside the wedding of the Boy Who Lived. "What if it's only someone posing as your Aunt? A journalist or something?" Hermione asked.
The idea didn't seem all that far-fetched, now he came to think of it. "We'll do what we do at work—get her to answer a question that only your real Aunt would know the correct answer to," Ron suggested. They all looked expectantly at Harry.
"Just after I got that letter from the Ministry about being expelled, after the Dementor attack...Dumbledore sent her a Howler saying 'remember my last'. If she can tell you the contents of that letter...it's her," he said.
"I'll go and ask her," Ron said, narrowing his eyes.
"I'll come with you," his father added hurriedly, following him out of the room.
"Don't you worry, Harry dear," Molly said comfortingly. "We'll sort this out soon enough, you'll see."
"I'm not worried," Harry said, somewhat automatically—but it was the truth. Petunia Dursley turning up at the Burrow on his wedding day was many, many things, but it didn't make him worried, as such. Though, come to think of it, he did have some concerns as to what Ginny might say to her...
As though his thoughts had somehow summoned her, Ginny's voice came down the stairs, growing louder as he came towards her. "Where are you all? You've all disappeared off and Hermione said something about an emergency, and I—"
"Don't come in here, it's bad luck!" Hermione squealed, and raced out into the hallway. Molly followed, and Harry heard them turn a protesting Ginny around and frogmarch her back up the stairs to her bedroom, where Harry knew that the other Weasley women and Luna were helping her get ready. He glanced at the clock: it was half past ten. By now, she'd be in her wedding dress, pretty much ready for the ceremony, which was due to begin in half an hour. If this business with Aunt Petunia didn't end up stalling it...
"I hope you're not looking for some pearls of wisdom from me," George's voice cut through Harry's thoughts. He jumped, having forgotten that the other Weasley was still in the room with him. "I know she's your family but...well, there's family, and there's family, isn't there? I'd give anything for another thirty seconds with Fred; Great Aunt Muriel could drop dead tomorrow and I wouldn't bat an eyelid. Speaking of which, maybe we should put her with your Aunt? They'd make a right pair..."
Harry forced a laugh. "What I really want to do," he mused aloud, "is talk to Ginny about this whole mess."
"Hmm," George said, frowning slightly.
"I can't though," Harry continued, still more to himself than to George, "Hermione and your mother and the rest of them would never allow it—it's bad luck!" he squawked, falsetto.
"You don't believe that, surely?" asked George.
"'Course not," Harry replied. "And neither does Ginny—nor Hermione, really. It's just a silly old superstition. But your Mum...well, no offense, but there's absolutely no way someone like her could be persuaded to ignore that tradition!"
"But you don't actually have to see her, do you? Ginny, I mean," George asked. Harry looked puzzled. "What I mean is, the superstition is that it's bad luck to see your bride on the wedding day before you get married. But there's nothing about not talking to her before the ceremony!"
"Well...no," Harry conceded. George winked.
"Leave it with me," he said, and then he, too, left the room.
Alone with his thoughts, Harry found himself fixating on the last time he'd met Dudley Dursley. It had started a few months after the war had ended, when Dudley had written to him, asking him to pass on his thanks to Hestia Jones and Deadlus Diggle, who had both done so much to help the Dursleys (so he said) during the time when they were in hiding, and shortly afterwards. Harry had done so, but couldn't hide his shock at this complete change in Dudley's attitude, and had found himself writing back to him, asking, half-joking, if they had given him a complete personality transplant whilst he was in hiding. Dudley had replied, stating that they had explained about the wizarding world, the war, and Harry's vital role in it, and he had been amazed, and horrified, at what his cousin was being expected to do.
And, even more significantly, he had apologised for his previous behaviour. Harry had (after some thought) forgiven him: he had forgiven others who had done much worse—the Malfoys, Snape—and Dudley had, after all, been very young when he used to bully him. People grew and changed, and Dudley was, at least, making an effort. From there, they began to exchange letters periodically, and last Christmas, he and Dudley had met up in a pub in Little Whinging, where they had had a drink or two and a catch-up. And then, Dudley had invited him back to his house, to see his parents again...
*
"Come on, just for ten minutes!" Dudley said. "They're dying to see you again." Harry felt that this was wishful thinking on Dudley's part, but it was Christmas, and his cousin had been making an effort, of late... But he had Ginny to think of—he'd said he'd be back by ten, and it was already half-past nine...by the time they'd walked to number four—a place he had no desire to visit again—it would be nearly ten, and...
"Some other time, maybe," he said, but Dudley looked crestfallen—so crestfallen, in fact, that Harry couldn't help but ask him why he was so insistent that Harry drop in to see two people who had no about as little desire to see him again as they had to see him.
"It's just..." Dudley said, fidgeting awkwardly with his coat buttons, "you remember Courtney?" Harry nodded, having been introduced to Dudley's girlfriend when he'd called on him a few hours earlier. "Well, we're thinking of getting married at some point, and probably having kids too, and...well, I just wouldn't want my kids to treat yours like I treated you!"
Harry was taken aback by this, but attempted to take it in his stride. "Well...that's very nice, Dud, but I still don't see why it means I have to visit your parents..."
"We need to make amends as a family," Dudley said seriously, and, too late, Harry remembered that Courtney was a psychologist. She had clearly been giving Dudley pointers on family relations. Still, the issue was clearly important to him, and it was Christmas...
"Well, I don't see the harm in stopping by for ten minutes," Harry said, and Dudley looked delighted. He was even more delighted by apparition—Harry had taken them to the bottom of Privet Drive by magic, to save the time walking—and Harry found himself struggling to reconcile this Dudley with the Dudley of his youth. But people can change he reminded himself. Look at Ron and Hermione—when they were both eleven, they'd sooner have died than kissed each other, and now they can't keep their hands off each other! If they can change, so can Dudley...
Dudley rang the doorbell of his parents' house, and he and Harry stood awkwardly on the doorstep. Aunt Petunia quickly opened the door, clearly delighted at this surprise visit from her 'Little Didikins'. Blushing, Dudley stepped backwards to reveal Harry, and Aunt Petunia turned pale with shock.
"Er—hello," Harry said. Aunt Petunia said nothing, still surveying Harry with...well, with what he couldn't tell. She wasn't pleased to see him, that much was clear, but she looked...there was definitely something there that Harry couldn't put his finger on. "Harry and I were just having drinks at the Slug and Lettuce in town," Dudley said. "We thought we'd drop in on our way home to say hello!"
"You'd better come inside then," Aunt Petunia said stiffly, and Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise that she'd extended the invitation so easily. Glancing behind him, however, Harry saw that the neighbours across the road had just pulled up and were eyeing Harry with interest. Aunt Petunia was quick to close the door behind him.
Number four still looked exactly the same as it had done all those years ago—though the kitchen had been redone, complete with fancy new appliances. It looked very Dursley. Dudley was making awkward small talk when Uncle Vernon stepped out of the living room. "You!" he said, his eyes bulging as they fell on Harry. "How dare you set foot in this house, after everything you put us through! Get out! Out!"
"Dad!" Dudley exclaimed angrily, but Harry just sighed without too much resignation. If Dudley had changed beyond all recognition, his father certainly hadn't.
"Don't you defend that...that...freak to me!" Vernon roared. Harry made his way over to the front door, glancing at Aunt Petunia as he went. She was looking at Harry strangely—and for a moment, he was back at the house aged seventeen and about to leave for the Horcrux hunt. She'd had the same expression on her face then, like there was something she wanted to tell him, but again she remained silent, just watching him as he reopened the front door and stepped out onto the driveway. "And stay out!" roared Vernon, slamming the door behind him. There was some indistinguishable shouting, then a moment later, Dudley joined him, apologising profusely.
"I don't know what I expected to happen," he said gloomily.
"Cheer up, Dud," Harry said, patting him rather awkwardly on the shoulder. "It'll..." He drifted off. 'It'll be okay' was what he had been going to say, but he knew that his relationship with his mother's sister and her husband would never be 'okay'. He didn't particularly care about this—he had lost interest in the two eldest Dursleys years ago—but he could see that Dudley was upset by his father's actions. "How about I apparate you back to your place?"
*
"Well, it really is your Aunt," Ron's voice brought Harry back to the present with a jolt. "I asked her the question, and she answered correctly—it's not a reporter in disguise or anything."
Harry nodded, but thought privately that this made even less sense than someone from the media trying to sneak into the wedding: that incident at Christmas had been the last time he'd seen his Aunt. He'd seen Dudley shortly after the new year, but neither of them had mentioned the incident at all—indeed, it hadn't been mentioned until a couple of weeks ago, when Dudley had said that he would come to the wedding.
I think Mum and Dad are still mad about what happened at Christmas—they didn't tell me that they'd received invitations until I found it hidden behind the fruit bowl when I was round this weekend he'd written.
"She said that she really needs to talk to you, before the wedding starts," Ron said. Harry glanced at Fabian Prewett's battered old watch. He was supposed to be down there in twenty-five minutes...
Before he could respond to Ron, Hermione poked her head around the door. "Harry? Ginny's here—George said that you needed to talk to her? He's distracting Mrs Weasley, and we thought that if the two of you talked through the closed door, it would be fine..."
Harry nodded, and Hermione beckoned at Ron, who followed her out of the living room, closing the door behind him. A moment passed, then Ginny's voice came, still as beautiful a sound to him as ever. "Harry? Hermione's explained everything about your Aunt being here—she said that she wanted to come to the wedding?"
"Apparently, she desperately needs to talk to me before the ceremony starts," Harry said. "But I don't know..."
"You don't want her here?" asked Ginny.
"I honestly don't care, I don't think," Harry said. "I mean, I don't care whether or not she's there. I am intrigued, though, about what she has to talk to me about, but..."
"But?" prompted Ginny.
"But she's shown no interest in anything I've done until now—why start today? And why would she even want to turn up? Is she trying to ruin this day—our day?!"
"I don't think so," Ginny said softly, and Harry wished he could see her face. "Look," she continued briskly. "She is your family, but that doesn't mean that she has to be here if you don't want her to be. She's no longer important in your life. What's that saying? 'It doesn't matter where you come from, it's where you're going.' That's cheesy, but it's true. Who cares about her? Today is about us!"
"So you think I should send her away?" Harry asked.
"I think you should do what you choose to do, not what anyone else thinks you should do," Ginny said. "No one here is going to judge you if you ask her to leave—we all know how she treated you as a child." Here, for the first time, a note of bitterness crept into Ginny's voice. "But, if you're feeling generous, by all means ask her to stay. Merlin only knows, there's enough of our other friends here today that you won't have to speak to her at the reception. Just don't spend the whole day obsessing over the right decision..." Harry was silent for a long moment – long enough for Ginny to ask him if he was still there.
"Yeah, I am," he replied. "I think...I think I'm going to go and talk to her, find out what she wants."
"I knew you would," Ginny said, with a tiny laugh. "She's in the kitchen. Hermione'll give you the all clear when I'm gone."
There was a rustle of material, then, a few moments later, Hermione opened the door. She looked uncertainly at Harry. "I'm going to talk to my Aunt," he said, setting off for the kitchen. She and Ron followed him, but tactfully didn't actually enter the room.
Harry was greeted with one of the strangest sights he'd ever seen: Aunt Petunia was sat at the Weasleys' kitchen table, making very awkward small talk with Arthur. "Ah, Harry!" said the latter, sounding as relieved as Harry had ever heard him. "I shall go and show your cousin to his seat—I must say, he's grown into a fine young man," he added to Aunt Petunia. "He knows so much about drills!"
Aunt Petunia looked like she didn't quite know what to say to this (in fairness, thought Harry, he didn't either), and so settled for taking a sip of the tea that someone had gone to the trouble of making for her. "Er...hello," Harry said, resisting the urge to glance at his watch. He wanted to know what it was that his Aunt had to say to him, but not at the expense of missing anything to do with his wedding.
"Hello," said Aunt Petunia. "I have something for you."
This, Harry was not expecting. He knew, of course, that it was traditional for a couple to be given wedding presents when they got married, but he was not expecting one from Aunt Petunia—and what could she possibly have bought? She fished around in her handbag, but paused and looked up at him before she drew anything out. "When Dudley found out that Vernon and I hadn't passed on your wedding invitation to him, he was very angry," she said. "But then, he always was a better person than I am...he has reconciled with you, whereas I never could with Lily."
"Right," said Harry shortly. He didn't have time to listen to revelations on Dudley's greatness from his Aunt—it felt too much like his childhood, when Dudley was far from a good person.
"The point is," sighed Aunt Petunia. "He made me think about what has happened...what I've done. Your mother left me something, in her will. I found them the other day, and...I wanted to give them to you, today, on your wedding day. I was going to give them to Dudley to take, but he made me come with him to give them to you. He said that I owed it to Lily... Vernon disagreed, of course, said we'd already done far too much for her memory, and sometimes I'm inclined to agree, but... Well, anyway. Here you go."
Unceremoniously, she handed Harry a small black box. Inside were two perfectly formed teardrop shaped emerald earrings. "Your father had them made for your mother on her wedding day," said Aunt Petunia. "She left them to me in her will, but I've never worn them. But Dudley showed me a picture of your...of Ginny, and I thought they would look lovely on her. If you wanted them, that is."
"Are you sure you want me to have them?" Harry asked. He owned very little that had belonged to his parents, and most of what he did have—the Marauders' Map, the Cloak—had belonged to his father. The earrings were exquisitely beautiful, his mother had worn them on her wedding day, and, much as he hated to admit it and agree with Aunt Petunia, they would look lovely on Ginny, the green showing up against her gorgeous red hair in much the same way he imagined it had on his mother. But still, they had been willed to Aunt Petunia...
"I will never wear them," she said simply. "So they may as well get put to some use."
"Well—thank you," said Harry, surprised. She inclined her head. "Do you want to stay for the wedding?" Asking her had been surprisingly easy in the end: Harry realised he honestly didn't care whether she was there or not. The day was about him and Ginny, and would be whether it was just the two of them and an officiator in attendance, or the two of them and every single person they knew.
Aunt Petunia looked surprised by the offer—even though, Harry thought drily, he had sent her an official invitation weeks ago. "If you don't mind," she said hesitantly.
"It's no trouble—we can make room," Harry said. Aunt Petunia nodded, clearly not understanding that he meant literally: two more chairs would have to be conjured. "Dudley's just outside," he said, indicating the back garden where his cousin was standing. Further down, in the meadow, stood a large marquee, where the ceremony, and later the reception, were to be held. At the entrance, little Teddy Lupin (aided and abetted by and George) was taking his duties as a page boy very seriously, and was showing people to their seats. Harry grinned, thinking of Aunt Petunia's expression when she saw his bright turquoise hair—and what she might look like if she witnessed it change colour. He gave her a final nod, and exited the kitchen, where Ron was stood outside waiting.
"All sorted?" asked his best man.
"Yep," nodded Harry. "Just got to do one more thing!" He raced up the stairs, and a second later, Ron realised what he was doing and sprinted after him.
"You can't go up there! Ginny's there! Harry, wait—"
Hermione, who had clearly heard Ron's voice, came hurtling out of Ginny's bedroom. "Harry, what's—"
"I need to talk to Ginny!" he said.
"Again?" she asked.
"It's okay, I'm covering my eyes!" he said, clapping a hand to his face and squeezing his eyes shut.
"Sorry, no men allowed in here," came Angelina's voice, and there was a firm grip on his arm which tried to steer him away.
"I have something for Ginny!" he repeated.
"Now, Harry dear?" came Molly's slightly exasperated tone.
"Yes—it's important," he insisted. Molly began to protest, but he heard Ginny shush her.
"It's okay, I've got my back turned and my eyes closed," she called. "Luna can confirm it, can't you Luna?"
"She does have her eyes shut tightly," came Luna's unmistakeably dreamy tones. "But that doesn't mean she can't see you, of course..."
Harry dismissed this as a typical Luna-ism, and explained the reason for his sudden appearance. "My Aunt wanted to give me a pair of my Mum's old earrings—the ones she wore on her wedding day. She thought that you might like to wear them and I agree," he said, surprising even himself with his words. Blindly, he held out the box, and felt Angelina take them from him.
A moment later, he heard the sound of it being opened, then unmistakeable gasps from all the women in the room. "Zhey are beautiful!" exclaimed a French voice, and Harry assumed that "Pitty earrings!" was Fleur's daughter agreeing with her mother's statement.
"Oh, Ginny, you have to wear them!" said Audrey, and Harry felt Hermione brush past him, clearly wanting to see what all the fuss was about.
"Oh you do, you do!" she cried. "Quickly, take out the ones I loaned you—you'll still be wearing 'something borrowed', so it's okay!"
"Of course I'll be wearing them," said Ginny, her voice full of love. "Thank your Aunt for me, Harry."
"Oh, I will," said Harry. "I—" But someone was steering him firmly away from the door to Ginny's bedroom, and when he opened his eyes he was nearly at the top of the stairs, gazing down at his soon-to-be mother-in-law.
"This is all very well and good, but you were expected downstairs five minutes ago, Harry!" Molly said, pointing downstairs and managing to look very fierce indeed, despite the fact that she was in her best dress robes and had had her hair and make up done to perfection by one of her many daughters-in-law.
"Er—yes—of course," Harry stuttered, whilst Ron, stood behind his mother, hid his sniggering in the palm of his hand.
"Now, get going! Go on, off you go! I will not have you be late to my daughter's wedding!" Harry raced down the stairs at double speed, but paused at the bottom, when Molly called him back. "Oh, Harry?"
"Yes?" he said, turning.
"Thank you." She gave him the kindest smile he had ever seen, and he grinned back. "The sooner you leave, the sooner you get to see her," she reminded him, and Harry all but dragged Ron to the entrance of the marquee, walking away from Ginny Weasley for the last time in his life.
Will you do a prompt where Harry and Ginny are shopping for one of their kid's wand? :)
“Let’s see…we’ve got the uniform sorted, and the books, and the cauldron…I think there’s something else, but I just can’t think what it might be!”
“Daddy! You know what it is!”
“Hmm…is it perhaps…potions ingredients?”
“Daddy! It’s my wand!”
“Silly Daddy,” Lily said, shaking her head.
“That’s men for you, isn’t Lily-Loo?” Ginny said conspiratorially.
“Men!” their daughter huffed, sounding exactly like Hermione at her most exasperated with Ron. Harry caught his wife’s gaze, then hurriedly looked away. It would not do for Lily to think she was being laughed at.
“Come on, this way,” Ginny said, steering them down Diagon Alley. Lily skipped on ahead, but when they reached Ollivander’s wand shop, she slowed, lingering in the doorway.
“Come on,” Harry said encouragingly, pushing the door open.
Lily slipped her hand inside her mother’s, and Ginny shrugged at Harry behind her back. By the time they had made their way over to the counter, Harry was already conversing with Mr Ollivander. “Ah, so this is the young Miss Potter,” he said, peering at her over the top of the counter. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Hello,” Lily said in a small voice.
“We were hoping to find Lily a wand today,” Ginny said brightly. Lily squeezed her hand. “May we make a start?”
“Of course, of course,” said Mr Ollivander. “Come here, child, and let me measure you.” Ginny stepped forward, prepared to accompany her daughter, but Lily squared her shoulders and let go of her mother’s hand. Mr Ollivander drew out his ancient tape measure and asked her to extend her wand arm. “How are your brothers’ wands working? Well, I hope.”
“Um, yes,” Lily said. “They’re…good.”
“Excellent, excellent,” said Mr Ollivander. “Of course, I would expect nothing less from an Ollivander product. And I am proud to say I now have your entire family. Hmm…” He wandered away, and Lily eyed the tape measure, which was continuing to move around her body. “Yes, young James and Albus, and of course both your parents—your mother a year later, of course, but that could not be helped…” Lily threw a questioning glance at her mother, who just shook her head. “And your father’s parents, and your mother’s parents…many years ago, of course,” Mr Ollivander continued vaguely. “I remember every one, naturally. But I think…perhaps…this one!” he finished abruptly, thrusting a wand at Lily. She jumped, but took it from him.
“Um…” she said, for the tape measure was now trying to measure the length of her eyebrows.
“Enough!” snapped Mr Ollivander, and it fell to the ground. “Now, just wave that around, go on.”
Lily tried to remember what her parents looked like when they were performing magic, and swished the wand through the air, producing a few red sparks. Harry and Ginny exchange startled glances: it had taken at least twenty different wands before James had managed so much as a single spark, and they had been in the shop over an hour with Albus. But before either of them could say anything, Ollivander had whipped the wand from her hands, and was already insisting she try a different one.
The next few wands produced little to no reaction in Lily, but the seventh, when waved, gave off several bright green sparks. “Oh!” Lily said, looking delighted, as her parents clapped and cheered, but Mr Ollivander shook his head again and took it off her.
“Not quite, not quite…” he muttered, and Lily looked at her parents in consternation. They shrugged, growing still more mystified when wand after wand produced some kind of reaction in Lily’s hands, but the wandmaker still seemed unconvinced. “I think…this might be the one,” he said eventually, once the pile of used wands in front of them had grown well into double figures.
Lily had begun to look quite bored by this point, but obediently took it, and gasped at once. “It’s…warm?” she said. Mr Ollivander looked smug.
“Go on then, wave it,” he said. Lily waved the wand, and an immediate shower of sparks, all colours of the rainbow, danced through the room. Harry and Ginny exchanged wide-eyed glances, whilst Lily shrieked with delight, waving the wand in front of her like a sparkler and spelling out her name with the many different colours. “Oh, bravo, bravo!” Mr Ollivander said, looking as happy as Harry had ever seen him.
“Mummy, look! Look, Daddy, look!” Lily cried, waving it around again. Ginny whooped and cheered, and Harry clapped his hands for her.
“That’s pretty impressive,” he said, and Lily glowed.
“It’s willow, nine and three-quarter inches, with a unicorn hair,” Mr Ollivander said. “An interesting choice.” Lily looked up, and the sparks stopped. “Yes, very interesting. We have a family proverb that says, ‘he who has furthest to travel will go fastest with willow’, and I certainly find that willow wands select those with greatest potential. You must be a remarkable girl, Miss Potter.”
“Can I buy it, please?” she asked him.
“I think it would be criminal for me not to let you take it away,” he said. “But, after everything your family has done, there is no need for you to pay, you can—”
“Lily, why don’t you and Mummy go to the Ice Cream Parlour and get something nice to eat? I’ll get your wand, and meet you there soon,” Harry said loudly. Lily was initially reluctant to part with her wand, but Mr Ollivander assured her he had to wrap it in its own special box, and Ginny promised her her choice of ice cream, and so they left the shop.
“Do I have great potential?” she asked, as the door closed behind them. “What for?”
“Everyone has potential,” Ginny said. “You could potentially become a great anything.”
Lily considered this. “So, what did Mr Ollivander mean? And the thing about travelling quickly?”
“Well, wandmakers have always had lots of folklore about the things they use to make their wands. Each wand wood is supposed to be good for different things, or select a witch or wizard who is well known for having a particular talent,” her mother said. “So, in the past, it would seem that he has noticed that people who use willow wands have a lot of potential, and maybe it helps them on their journeys. I don’t really know.”
“You don’t know?!” Lily asked, sounding amazed.
Ginny stifled a smile. “I don’t know everything,” she said. “Mr Ollivander certainly knows more about making wands than I do. But also, wandlore can be quite vague. It’s a bit like Divination. You can make a prediction, but whatever you predict doesn’t affect people’s free will. It still might not come true, because a person might chose not to do a certain thing that the prophecy said they would.”
“So I don’t have a lot of potential?” Lily blinked.
“I didn’t say that,” Ginny said. “But, I think everyone has potential. It doesn’t matter what your wand says—or doesn’t say—about you.”
“Huh,” said Lily.
“Choose an ice cream,” Ginny advised, for they had arrived at Fortescue’s. They both ordered ice creams and took seats in a booth, digging in without waiting for Harry to arrive.
“Mummy, what did Mr Ollivander mean about you getting your wand a year late?” Lily asked.
Ginny swallowed a large piece of ice cream, considering her response. “You know how Gran and Grandad Weasley didn’t have very much money when your Uncles and I were growing up?” Lily nodded. “They couldn’t afford to buy me a wand for my first year, so I had my Great Aunt Agatha’s, who had died the year before I went to Hogwarts. Then, at the start of my second year, we won the Daily Prophet’s grand draw, which is when we went to Egypt. And there was enough money left over to buy me and Uncle Ron new wands. He’d had Uncle Charlie’s old one.”
“I thought you said the other day that everyone should have their own wand for it to work best?” Lily asked, confused.
“I did, but in a pinch you can make another’s wand work,” Ginny said. “And I didn’t know any different, when I was using her wand. When I got my own…well, it was almost as impressive as you were in the shop!” Lily was still frowning. “What’s up?” her mother prompted.
“Mr Ollivander wanted to give me my wand,” she said. “Daddy helped him, during the war, didn’t he? I remember you saying…”
“Yes,” Ginny said slowly.
“But Daddy doesn’t like people giving him stuff for free,” Lily continued. “That’s why he made us leave, so he could force Mr Ollivander to take the money, I reckon.”
Ginny stifled a smile. “You’re a very perceptive young lady,” she said.
“Yes, well, Daddy and us—we’ve all got lots of money,” Lily said. “We don’t need free stuff, but people always try to give us free things. And you didn’t have any money at all growing up, and no one gave you free things, but you really needed them. That’s not fair!”
Ginny bit her lip. “It’s not,” she agreed. “It’s not fair. But also—do you really think Gran and Grandad would accept something for free?”
“You took them the tomatoes from the garden the other day,” Lily pointed out. “You didn’t make them pay.”
“No,” her mother agreed. “But Granny often gives us eggs from her chickens. That’s an exchange. It’s not charity. You can offer someone help, but you can’t insist they take it. Some people don’t like charity, because they think it implies they’re not good enough to look after their own family or their own home. But not everyone—some people are very grateful for it.”
“That’s silly,” Lily said, frowning. “Everyone should be able to afford what they need and if they don’t they should get help. If they want it. I’m going to make sure of it.”
Ginny laughed. “Sounds like you’re going to be a politician!” she said. “Maybe that’s your great potential.”
“What’s going on?” Harry had joined them.
“Lily is considering a career in politics, working to right the wrongs of a system that offers free stuff to those who don’t need it and not to those who do,” Ginny said.
“Ah,” said Harry. “Sounds like a good morning’s work, at least.”
“Do you have my wand?” Lily asked, bouncing up and down in her seat.
“I do,” Harry said. “All present and correct—and paid for.”
“Yay!” Lily said, taking it out and waving it around to produce more rainbow coloured sparks. She frowned in concentration, then waved it again, and only red sparks came out. She smiled in satisfaction.
“Very impressive,” Ginny said. “You’ll be outmagicing your brothers in no time.”
Lily looked delighted. “They’re not allowed to use magic in the holidays!” she said gleefully.
“Neither are you,” Ginny said at once, frowning at her husband to back her up. Harry, who had been stealing some of her ice cream, swallowed hastily.
“No,” he said, “I mean, yes. No magic. Not until you’re of age.”
“But, Daddy, I don’t know how to perform magic,” Lily said blinking. “I only know how to make sparks. So there’s nothing I could do to them that they can’t do to me.”
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I think your mother’s right, you are going to be a politician with that tricky attitude,” Harry said.
“Is that bad?” Lily asked.
“Nah. You can be whatever you want to be,” he replied.
“Can I be a Professional Ice Cream Eater?” Lily asked.
“No,” Ginny said, having stolen her own back from her husband. “That’s my job!”
“You can have it whilst I’m at school,” Lily said magnanimously, her attention already focussed purely on her new wand. Harry and Ginny looked at each other, and smiled.
If you look on the Pottermore wand wood list, a lot of my headcanon for Lily Luna matches up with that of Willow wand owners :)
Prompt: Ginny and/or Hermione turn to fleur for advice when their relationship(s) head toward the next level
Rated T (but nothing graphic) just fyi :)
— -
“I mean, I know I should talk to my Mum about this sort of thing, but she’s just…I don’t know, she’s kind of from a different generation.”
“They do things differently, non?”
“They do! So just…well, thank you very much for helping me out.”
“Pfft, it ees nothing. ’Ere is the potion, it should sort you out for now.”
Fleur’s response to this was lost in the scraping of a chair, and Bill felt—momentarily—guilty. He didn’t mean to listen at doors, but he had to admit to being intrigued: though Fleur and Ginny god on much better now, he was still surprised to find there was something she’d talk to his wife about that she wouldn’t share with her brothers or mother.
“Does it often hurt?” Fleur was asking now.
“Yes,” came Ginny’s response. “Sometimes a lot worse than others, but it always hurts.”
Fleur hummed thoughtfully, and Bill pulled away from the closed kitchen door in alarm. It sounded like they were talking about…but no, they couldn’t be. Could they?
“And it doesn’t bother you that it ’as always been like this?”
“You mean, why haven’t I mentioned anything about the pain before? Like I said, I don’t really want to ask my Mum about it. And it’s not like I think Hermione would tell the whole world, but she and Ron share everything so I think she’d maybe let it slip at some point… Also, I have mentioned it a little to her before now but she says it doesn’t hurt for her, so…”
“Well, I am glad you feel you can ask me for ’elp,” Fleur said gently. “I can share with you my…’ow you say…tips and tricks for making it easier, yes?” Bill’s eyes narrowed. He was all for Fleur helping out Ginny in a…sisterly way, but giving her advice on…that was not something he could support. And they had to be talking about…that, didn’t they?
He shuddered. He was never going to have daughters.
“The thing is, it’s been going on for years now,” Ginny was saying conversationally.
Bill gaped, literally speechless. He had been planning on murdering Harry, but now it seemed there would be a whole host of boys that would have to be dealt with. Years! She wasn’t even seventeen yet!
“’Ave you considered a contraceptive potion?” Fleur inquired. Good on her, Bill found himself thinking, for taking this all so calmly. She was very good, his wife, very calm. She could cope with anything…
“I don’t know,” Ginny said. “Hermione did mention something about a muggle pill that can help, but…”
“Yes, some of my muggleborn friends at school explained that to me,” Fleur said. “The potion works in a similar way, but this pill, I think you ’ave to take every day. The potion you take once a week, but it does the same thing. It is a…’ow to say…birth control method, but it can help in that other way. It eases things, makes them hurt less.”
“Are you sure?” Ginny asked.
“Yes,” Fleur responded at once. “I started it when I was fifteen, and it made things so less painful. It ’elped me so much. I can only recommend it to you.”
“I hear what you’re saying, I really do,” said Ginny. “But I’m just a bit unsure about…well…I’m just not sure I should be taking contraceptives, you know? I just think that at my age—”
“If you are going to be doing that with your boyfriend,” Bill said, bursting into the room unable to stand it any longer, “you’d bloody well better make sure you’re using contraceptives! You’re far too young to be having sex, but if you are, you have to take responsibility. No babies! Not from you!”
Ginny and Fleur both shrieked when he barged in, and Ginny herself began to turn as red as he had ever seen her. “I—I’m not—” she began to stutter, but it was Fleur, looking more furious than she ever had before, who grabbed him by the arm and led him forcefully back into the hallway. She slammed the kitchen door shut, cast a silencio and rounded on him before he had a chance to speak.
“You are unbelievable!” she said, and he physically backed away from her. “Your sister, she came to me because she is ’aving the problems with ’er…’ow you say…lady cycles, and she wanted me to ’elp! And you know, this ees the first time she opens up to me like this, and you barge in and embarrass ’er like that! ’Ow did you even know of what we were talking?! Did you listen at the door?”
Bill muttered something incomprehensible.
“You did! Oh, you are terrible! Your poor sister, she ’as things bad enough, and then you embarrass ’er and make assumptions, and you—oh! You are terrible!” She jabbed him in the chest with her finger, still fiercely glaring, and Bill held his hands up in surrender.
“I’m sorry, okay? I just—I know it’s wrong, but I panicked, sort of. I heard her talking about pain, and it going on for years and I just thought… And then you started talking about contraceptives, and—”
“Any fool knows that contraceptive potions can ’elp a woman who suffers in that way,” Fleur scoffed. “She cannot come to you or any of ’er other brothers to ask for ’elp because you either do nott know or you would laugh at ’er and ’urt ’er. You should not ’ave been listening at doors to private conversations, but if you must, then you must not jump to these conclusions. Any woman would ’ave known in seconds what it ees we are on about!”
“I know, I know, you’re completely right,” Bill said, deciding very quickly that complete agreement was the best form of defence. “But when I made that mistake—when I thought she was talking about sex, and you know she’s just got together with Harry—well…imagine if it was Gabrielle!”
Fleur’s eyes narrowed. “It would not be Gabrielle at this age because she ees twelve! But if she was older, and she was asking for advice on that matter, I would ’elp ’er, too! And before you say anything—you were the same age as Ginny when you first started sleeping with women.”
“Yes, but it’s diff—”
“Don’t you dare say it’s different for girls because I was the same age too, and you knew that when you married me. What your sister does ees ’er business—well, Harry’s too, if she ees doing it with him. You do not get to say anything. Now,” Fleur said, drawing herself up, “you must apologise.”
“I’m so very sorry,” he began.
“Not to me, you fool! To Ginny!” Fleur exclaimed. “And if you dare make ’er feel embarrassed or ashamed about ’er…womanly problems, you will be sleeping on the sofa from ’ere to eternity, you understand?!”
“Yes, Fleur, I understand,” he said meekly, opening the kitchen door. “Ginny?”
His sister looked up at him, suddenly seeming much younger than sixteen.
“Ginny, I’m really sorry for barging in on your private discussion like that,” he said. “I know it must be difficult, your…uh…I mean, your…ah…”
“Painful periods?” Ginny asked, smiling sweetly. He heard Fleur snort, and winced
“Yes, that. But I’m glad you have someone to advise you on these matters,” he said, then realised he had turned into Percy. Ginny was smirking. “Look, I’m sorry for making those kind of assumptions. I’m just glad that you have Fleur to help out with those sorts of things. And I’m sorry you have to go through it. It can’t be fun.”
“It isn’t,” Ginny said. “Apology accepted, though.” He smiled, relieved. “But, what did you think we were talking about?” she asked, blinking.
“Oh, come on, Gin,” he said. She did the innocent angel face she could pull off so well (surprisingly), and Fleur poked him. “Ow! I just thought that the two of you were talking about…you know…well, you know!” He had no idea why it was suddenly so hard for him to say the word ‘sex’, but it was.
Ginny shrugged and blinked again, and he felt like he’d achieved something in not shaking her. Growing up the youngest, and the only girl, she’d become truly excellent at making her brothers feel uncomfortable…
“I just thought that you were talking to Fleur about contraceptives because you and Harry are…taking your relationship to the next level,” he said, as first Ginny, then Fleur began to giggle. “However,” he continued, trying to maintain the most dignified tone possible, “I am very glad you feel you are able to talk to Fleur about these sorts of issues, when such events do end up occurring. And I am sorry that I insinuated they are occurring now.”
“I’m so glad you feel this way,” Ginny said, mimicking his Percy-esque tone. “It is very good to know I have your full support. Because they are occurring now!”
It took him a moment, but then he closed his eyes in horror—entirely missing the wink Ginny gave Fleur.
please write anything bill and fleur, your characterisation of them is my favourite! maybe something where fleur is hurt about what molly and ginny have been saying about her and bill comforts her? your writing is amazing!
I know this is longer than I said, but I do love these two :) Also, thank you!
— -
Fleur’s used to being hated by women. She’s beautiful, men lust after her. She’s clever, rich, powerful, ambitious. Women and girls have loathed her since she hit puberty. Not all, it’s true, but a substantial proportion.
It would be a lie to say she isn’t bothered by it, because she is—sometimes more, sometimes less. She gets hurt, she feels sad, or maybe angry, but she’s never before wanted to make the women who hate her love her.
Or even like her.
Bill hugs her and kisses her and tells her that it’s alright, that he loves her and that’s all that matters, that his Mum and sister’ll come round eventually, that they’re always like this to his girlfriends, it’s not personal…and all that’s probably true. And she loves Bill—God, she loves him—and she’s not going to leave him over this, no matter how much it upsets her.
She tries talking about herself, what she can do, about France, about her interests so his mother and sister won’t think she’s a vacant airhead, but that backfires: they think that she’s snobby, and that she thinks she’s too good for them. She offers to do Ginny’s hair and make up for her, but she shoots her down—she doesn’t need to paint her face to make boys interested, she tells her.
Neither do I, you silly girl, Fleur wants to say. I paint my face because it’s fun.
She offers to play Quidditch with her instead, but Ginny needs to practise against some proper competition if she’s going to make the team this year. And, yes, she is good—better than Fleur, definitely—but Fleur could hold her own against her, at least.
Bill says she should offer to help his mother with cooking and housework. That’s what Molly Weasley prides herself on, and if Fleur can manage to do it to her satisfaction, she’ll be in. And so she offers, but she’s turned down at first relatively politely, but then more and more coldly. “No, thank you,” Molly says. “I don’t think that’s quite what we’re looking for. We want proper, English food I think.”
You can take your foreign ways away from my son. You’re not good enough for him.
And when she takes the initiative and does things around the house like make the beds, Molly follows her around, remaking them, afterwards. “That’s not quite how I do it, dear.” (Her one act of vindictiveness is to ruin the turned down sheets on Bill’s bed with him one afternoon, making him beg for mercy in a snatched few minutes to themselves when everyone else is out. She primly remakes the bed afterwards, and waits for Molly to say something. She doesn’t.)
She only cries once, on Christmas Eve, because she’s lonely and homesick and cold and she doesn’t know what else she can do. Bill holds her and strokes her hair in the apple orchard at The Burrow—because she’s not going to let them know how much she’s hurting—and she loves loves loves him but even he can’t comfort her tonight. In desperation, he says that he’ll take her back to their flat tonight, that they’ll pack a bag and he’ll pay the extortionate price of a last minute Portkey and spend Christmas Day with her family but her pride won’t let her.
That, and the fact that she knows Bill wants to be here with them whilst he still can—with Voldemort and the war coming, the unspoken threat of things not being the same next Christmas is ever present. And despite it all, she still wants them to like her. She just doesn’t know how that will ever be possible.
On Christmas Day, when Percy turns up, she has to stop herself from running after him when he leaves, covered in parsnip. Bill had told her what had happened long ago, and she’d been horrified—towards Percy, whom she vaguely remembered, and not towards his family. She’d never been able to believe that someone could walk out on his family like that: Fleur would die before she leaves her sister. She nearly did.
But now, she understands. When the Weasleys decide that something about you is not right, they let you know that you’re not welcome. Maybe Percy has made some mistakes, but they’re certainly not blameless either. And he’s not allowed to stick around long enough to start to apologise and correct those mistakes. She wants to run after him, tell him she understands, offer him a hug and a promise that he’s not universally loathed.
Instead, she helps clear the used crockery off the table, carrying it into the kitchen. She asks if Molly needs any help with the washing up, but as usual, she’s turned down. “Are you sure?” she presses. She’s not sure why—perhaps because of the look of devastation on Molly’s face after her third son’s visit, and a need to reach out to try to help.
“Yes,” the older woman says shortly. “You run along now—we’ll get on just fine without you.”
“We certainly will,” Ginny mutters, once she’s out of the room—but not out of earshot. She’s heard a million of these comments before, but they’re usually followed by some sort of reprimand from Molly, even if it’s clearly half-hearted at best. Tonight, there’s no reprimand, not even on Christmas, and that’s when she gives up.
She still loves Bill, and she won’t leave him or even postpone the wedding. But she just gives up on trying to make them like her. They will never do anything other than tolerate her at best, and the sooner she accepts that, the better. (She lies awake, crying, for most of the night, and tells Bill she’s just homesick. She sort of hates him for not digging deeper and finding the real explanation.)
*
Immediately after the attack, after Molly offers her the tiara and they both cry over Bill’s broken body and reconcile in the Hogwarts’ Hospital Wing (of all places), she doesn’t dare hope that this means Molly—and especially Ginny—might come to love her eventually.
But then, the next morning, Molly comes along baring a basket of croissants for Fleur (which, really, she doesn’t like, but she appreciates the gesture) and apple crumble for Bill. “It’s his favourite,” Molly says. “I will give you my secret recipe, so you can make it for him.”
“Thank you,” Fleur says, because she’s meant to.
“Or…or maybe, maybe you could teach me how to cook some of the French dishes he likes?” Molly asks tentatively.
“I would love to,” Fleur says, because it’s the truth.
And then, two days later, Ginny comes down to sit with her and asks her to do her make up. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch,” she says bluntly, as Fleur applies eyeliner with a slightly shaking hand to her face. She respects Ginny, so she doesn’t try to shake it off with an ‘oh, it was nothing’ or ‘I hardly noticed’. “I used to think that you’d used your Veela powers to ensnare him,” she continues, nodding towards her sleeping brother.
You wouldn’t be the first, Fleur thinks. And you won’t be the last.
“But now I realise that I’m wrong,” Ginny says. She opens her eyes and leans back, so she’s looking at Fleur directly. “Bill must’ve performed some kind of enchantment on you, because that’s the only way an idiot like my brother could end up with someone so beautiful and smart.”
Fleur shrugs. “All boys are idiots,” she says.
“Oh, I know that,” Ginny replies, and somehow that strikes them both as hilarious, and despite everything, the end up laughing so hard Madam Pompfrey threatens to remove them. “Come on,” Ginny says, standing up. “You should get some fresh air—you’ve not left this room for nearly three days. I’ll show you round the grounds.” She extends a hand, and Fleur takes it.
It’s just a beginning. But there doesn’t have to be an end.
I'm the person who had the Head Girl Ginny head canon, that was brilliant by the way. I was wondering, if you'd like, if you could do another one where Ginny hangs around Sirius and Remus a lot at Grimmauld Place and Molly doesn't really approve. But, Ginny gets on with them on a different level because they just understand her (like her first year) and they make her laugh. She reminds them of James: confident, mischievous and a chaser? Thanks always, you're a brilliant writer xx.
Thank you for being so so lovely to me and providing me with such lovely headcanons to write! Sorry I didn’t quite manage to get all of that in, but I hope you like it anyway :)
“Has he gone?”
Neither Remus nor Sirius batted an eyelid as Ginny Weasley crawled out of a kitchen cupboard at number 12, Grimmauld Place. “Charlie?” Remus asked politely, setting his teacup down on the table. Ginny nodded. “Yes, the coast is clear. He went chasing after the twins a few moments ago.”
“Excellent,” Ginny replied, dusting off her jeans in a business-like manner. “Time for phase two.”
“Phase two?” asked Sirius, raising an eyebrow. Ginny tapped the side of her nose.
“Good morning!” she snapped, making the phrase sound more like a death threat than a pleasant greeting. She began waving her wand viciously at various kitchen implements, muttering darkly under her breath the entire time, and Sirius was forced to duck to avoid being decapitated by a frying pan which flew across the room and landed on the range with an almighty crack.
“Fred and George!” she replied, all but throwing the bacon into the pan. “As if we don’t have enough to worry about right now! Honest to Merlin, dying poor Charlie’s hair pink!” Remus attempted various noises of sympathy, whilst Sirius hid his laughter behind a copy of the Daily Prophet. “It’s not like they don’t have younger siblings to think of, oh no!” Molly continued. “What sort of example is this setting for Ron, and little Ginny?” Sirius and Remus both determinedly avoided each other’s eye.
“I think ‘little Ginny’ can probably cope,” the former muttered, as Molly huffed and puffed away.
“What was that?” Molly asked, whirling around. Raising seven children seemed to have given her the hearing of a bat—which wasn’t entirely unsurprising, Sirius reflected, as he stammered his way through a feeble explanation about there being an interesting article in the paper this morning. “Well that makes a change!” she said waspishly, and he resolved to keep his mouth shut.
HP
“And I don’t need no potion baby, to make you fall for me! You can come right up here now and ride my broom for free!”
“I had no idea you were a Hobgoblins fan, Ginny,” Sirius said, entering the library to investigate the source of the singing. Ginny, who was ostensibly cleaning the entire room, cheerfully waved her feather duster at him.
“I thought you right recognise the lyrics,” she grinned. “Though I’ve got to say, I’d have thought you might be able to come up with something a bit more…I don’t know…subtle?”
Sirius stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“Ah yes,” chuckled Remus, who had arrived behind his friend. “You’re Stubby Boardman himself, aren’t you?”
“Moony, what the fu—what are you talking about?” Sirius amended hastily, seeing Ginny eyeing him with interest.
“In the latest edition of The Quibbler magazine, there is an article suggesting that notorious escaped Death Eater and Stubby Boardman, lead singer of 80s sensation The Hobgoblins are one and the same person,” Remus said. “Which, in fairness, is no more bizarre than some of the articles the Prophet is running at the moment.”
“Right,” Sirius said slowly. “And what nutter writes this Quibbler magazine?”
“Xeno Lovegood,” Remus said. Sirius grinned fondly in remembrance.
“That figures.”
“He’s not quite as mad as he once was. He’s less…out there since he had a kid,” Remus said.
“And is the kid as bonkers as he is?” Sirius asked.
“Luna’s not bonkers!” Ginny said indignantly. “She’s one of my best friends!”
“She always was an excellent pupil,” Remus said diplomatically. Sirius looked about to add something, when they heard loud footsteps on the stairs.
“Oh God!” Ginny cried, diving behind the nearest bookshelf and pulling a dust sheet over herself. “I’m not here, I’m not here!” she hissed.
“What—” Remus began, but Sirius dug an elbow into his ribs as Charlie Weasley—hair still faint shade of pink, which looked especially bizarre when mixed with his natural red—burst into the room.
“Have either of you seen my dear little sister?” he asked, all faux-saccharine.
“What’s she done?” Sirius asked with interest.
“Dyed my hair pink and changed all my Puddlemere shirts to Holyhead Harpies ones, look!” Charlie said, holding one up as proof. “I don’t know how she’s done it, but I can’t change them back. And I don’t have time to be messing around with Charms textbooks, because I have to be packed and at the Ministry to get my Portkey back to Romania in two hours!”
“Have you tried reversing a colour change charm?” Remus asked. Charlie nodded. “If that won’t fix it, it must be really quite advanced magic,” he said diplomatically. “Are you sure that perhaps the twins…?”
“I thought that at first,” Charlie sighed. “But the shirt thing happened whilst I was yelling at them for turning my hair pink—they couldn’t have done it, I was with them the entire time. And anyway, they support the Magpies. Gin’s the only one who supports Holyhead.”
“Well, I think she was upstairs, cleaning out the third floor guestroom with your mother?” Sirius said helpfully.
“Thanks mate,” Charlie replied. He shook his head at the shirt in his hands, before turning on his heel and leaving again. Shortly thereafter, Ginny emerged from beneath the dust sheet.
“You owe me,” Sirius said at once.
“Oh, sure,” Ginny replied. “I’ll pay you back by not telling Fred and George who really stole their deck of Exploding Snap cards the other day.”
Remus snorted. “May I ask why you’re tormenting your brother?” he asked.
“He asked for it!” Ginny said at once. “He was trying to suggest that the only thing I could do for the Order was make the sandwiches to keep the menfolk happy, git. And he used up all the hot water before I could shower, yesterday.”
“You know, there is a charm that—” Remus began.
“I know there’s a charm,” she interrupted. “But I’m not of age; I can’t do it here.”
“Then how did you turn your brother’s hair pink and do whatever it is you did to his shirts?” Sirius asked at once.
“His hair was a potion, and one that I didn’t brew myself,” Ginny said, looking smug. “And the shirts were quite simple: I stuffed the real ones in his suitcase, after getting them duplicated, and then charmed the duplicates to say Holyhead rather than Puddlemere. You can’t charm them back because they’re only duplicates—the spell’ll wear off in a couple of hours and they’ll vanish. And as for who did the charms…well, I merely had to hint to my favourite Auror that my brother was being mean to me, and…”
“Kingsley Shacklebolt?” asked Remus, puzzled.
“No, idiot,” said Sirius, rolling his eyes. “My young cousin.”
“Ah,” said Remus, determinedly avoiding his gaze. Ginny looked between them, but before she could see anything, her mother burst into the library.
“Getting on with the cleaning, I take it?” she asked, and Ginny waved her feather duster like a talisman. “She’s not distracting you, is she?” Molly added, turning to Sirius and Remus, though it was clear from her expression that she thought it more likely they would be distracting her. Remus tried very hard not to look guilty—reminding himself repeatedly that he was a thirty-six year old Professor and not a naughty schoolboy—and reassured Molly that Ginny was doing a splendid job of cleaning. “Good, good,” Molly said vaguely. “Oh, by the way, Professor Dumbledore is stopping by this afternoon before the…” She glanced at her daughter, “event. I think he wanted to go over some…ah…plans with you.”
“We’ll sort that out right away, Molly,” said Remus, as Sirius rolled his eyes behind her back.
“Yes, you should. Oh—Ginny? Have you seen your brother, Charlie?”
“I think he’s upstairs packing, Mum,” Ginny said. “I wouldn’t know; I’ve been working hard in here since breakfast.”
“Hmm, yes,” Molly said. “Good girl. Well, I’d best see if he’s gone back to his room.” She bustled off, and Ginny rearranged some books on the nearest shelf, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
“I am impressive,” Ginny said. “And anyway, who does she think she’s kidding, not mentioning anything in front of me like I’m five?! Like the whole house doesn’t know what this mysterious event tonight is. Who could you possibly be collecting? Might it be my Great-Aunt Muriel? Or might it be Harry Potter? Let’s think.”
Sirius laughed again, but Remus looked more serious. “You know, you really shouldn’t—”
Before he could go any further, Molly Weasley’s bellow of “Ginevra Molly Weasley, get up here right now!” cut him off, and Ginny pulled a face.
“Looks like you’ve been caught,” Sirius said. “And the twins won’t be happy if you tried to dob them in it…”
Ginny squared her shoulders. “I can handle this,” she said, marching confidently out of the room.
“You know, I think she might actually be able to,” Sirius said admiringly.
“I don’t know: Molly is the woman who raised Fred and George,” Remus countered. “But, if anyone stands a chance, it’s Ginny.”
“She is quite shameless,” Sirius agreed. “Hey—you know who she reminds me of?”
“Lily?” guessed Remus.
“What, because she’s a bit ginger too?” Sirius snorted. “Nah—she’s James all over.”
“Really?”
“Oh, sure. James’d do the exact same thing when we got caught pranking someone, d’you remember? He’d smile and look charming and sweet-talk his way out of almost anything. You’d apologise and promise never to do it again like the good little boy you were; I’d just stand there like ‘eh, yeah, I did it, what’cha gonna do about it?’ and Pete…well, he’d try to copy all of that and fail. But James’d do what she does: just try to nice her way out of trouble. And I’m guessing she’s good friends with Xeno Lovegood’s kid?” Remus nodded. “Thought so—she looked about to hex me when I was talking about them being nutters.”
“And that is very James, I guess,” Remus agreed. He chuckled suddenly.
“What?” asked Sirius.
“Listen,” Remus said, nodding towards the ceiling. Molly Weasley’s voice was reaching a crescendo, and though they couldn’t hear the actual words she was saying, the general gist was quite clear from her tone: she wasn’t happy.
“And I guess James’d try and sweet-talk his way out of things, and nine times out of ten, it wouldn’t work for him either,” sighed Sirius. “Those were the days, eh?”
“That they were,” Remus said. A sudden crash from down the hallway meant even more noise: Mrs Black’s voice could be heard screeching alongside Molly’s. “Sounds like your mother’s awake.”
“Only one person knocks over that umbrella leg all the time,” Sirius said, heading for the door somewhat resignedly. “Come on. You can ask dear Nymphadora for lessons in…what was it Ginny said? Duplicating charms? I’m sure she’d be more than willing to show you what she can do…”
“I am very glad that, after all these years, you haven’t lost the ability to make an innuendo out of nothing,” Remus said, a pained expression on his face.
“In-your-endo,” Sirius said, and Remus hit him with Ginny’s abandoned feather duster.
