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Author: Mangykneazle Story: There and Back Again Lane Rating: Teens Setting: AU Status: WIP Reviews: 2 Words: 87,756
—(Angelina’s POV)— One bottle rests empty on the coffee table while ours, barely touched, is in my hand. The two younger Weasleys have performed as expected, Ron by getting pissed and Ginny behaving like a sullen prat half the time – not as though I blame either of them. Hermione was glaring at Ron even before Harry and Ginny arrived determined to find fault with him. He was agitated enough without her encouragement. Ginny arrived jittery in spite of Harry’s attentiveness that wavered under Ron and Hermione’s constant barrage of nervous looks and odd questions. Hermione couldn’t leave well enough alone, but Ginny held her own for the longest while. Then it was bottle and glower. This bloody family can be an absolute disaster at times. ‘Well, that was a rousing success,’ Hermione announces to the room as Harry and Ginny make their way to the pavement, scowling at her husband who’s using the wall for support. Fred takes pity on his brother and casts a few sobering charms. ‘I dunno,’ Fred retorts. ‘Harry wasn’t an arse, Ginny didn’t hex anyone, and Ron here,’ slapping his recovering sibling, ‘seems to have enjoyed himself. Could’ve been a lot worse.’ He shrugs at Hermione’s look of utter disbelief. ‘Ron is, was, completely pissed!’ Hermione replies, pointing violently at her husband. ‘Operative word, was,’ rebukes Fred. ‘Besides, you could’ve avoided arguing with Ginny.’ Things continue like this for ten minutes while Ron directs himself contritely towards making coffee and tea for us. I follow him in to assist and to avoid the bickering until it becomes unbearable. Besides, Ron probably needs a little more than coffee to prop him up right now. ‘How are you doing, Ron?’ Enough of an inflection from my Quidditch captain days sparks him to respond rather than ignore the question. ‘Buggered if I know.’ He slumps on to a chair at the kitchen table cradling his head in his hands. ‘It was great to see Harry so happy, never thought I’d see him again.’ He’s smiling – a good sign. ‘And Ginny.’ His eyes mist over and he stares fixedly at the table top. ‘What’d we do?’ No one ever told me about what happened to Harry after the night of the last battle. I’m surprised Ron or Hermione didn’t involve Fred in it. Only a small circle involving those two, Remus, a few of the remaining Hogwarts professors, and of course a select group at St Mungo’s and from the Ministry. After Ginny had informed us of Harry’s continued existence, Fred nearly dismissed Remus until the latter explained the situation a bit better under condition of absolute secrecy. Fred didn’t even tell me. Mind, Remus was in a right state after the battle himself. The night Ginny told us changed a lot of things. For the first time in years she was genuinely happy, bouncing around the flat like a teenager. Fred lost confidence in Moony that has yet to be regained entirely. Ron and Hermione were made honorary Percys for about six months, a considerable amount of time for a family as tightly knit as the Weasleys. Fred became more guarded, his ideas for new products more sinister. None of those entered general production, thankfully. He also began to have nightmares about the attack on Grimmauld Place that claimed his mother as well as the last battle itself. They and his new attitude put a dreadful strain on the marriage but we emerged tighter and stronger. I don’t think Fred honestly believes Harry was to blame for Mrs. Weasley’s, Molly’s, death. The Death Eaters would have attacked the Order’s Headquarters whether or not Harry was there. His decision to try to play the hero once more by luring off the bastards instead of using one of the emergency portkeys immediately may have cost precious time, but possibly saved a few lives. Fred and George both accused Harry of dereliction to the family for not having warned them as he had about Arthur. That declaration, along with Harry’s inevitable self-recrimination, led to a series of pleading letters from Ron to lay off. Ginny went straight to the twins’ hearts with direct threats and hints of libel that might bring ruination to the firm. While the brothers were certain she wouldn’t carry out the latter course of action, they had too much respect for her not to discount the former. By our second post-Hogwarts summer, both Fred and George had forgiven Harry. He had become more detached in the meantime, almost impersonal – not unfriendly, no longer yelling, just distant, closed. Breaking free of memories, I ask Ron what he meant precisely, hoping for at least a modest morsel of information. Might as well have asked him for his Quidditch playbook. All he gives me is a morose little smile and a shake of the head. This bloody family. We carry in the trays of tea and coffee back to the sitting room with the other two still in full fury. They’re on the verge of tossing things, including the small vase I’d bought Hermione for her last birthday. ‘Oi, shut it!’ I’ve learned that one either needs passion or volume to get noticed in this family, and I’ve enough of both. ‘And if that vase falls it won’t be the only thing that breaks!’ Both Fred and Hermione glare at me but my glower ensures their silence, and Fred gingerly returns the vase to the mantle. ‘What’s the real problem, Hermione?’ I cross my arms, thick from years of school and professional Quidditch, staring her down. To her credit, Hermione doesn’t quail. She slumps down into a chair and shakes her head, freeing a few strands of her brown hair from the straightening charm. ‘Ginny’s not told him.’ She pauses. I doubt any of us, other than Hermione, thought Ginny would reveal herself as a witch before the wedding night. ‘Anything.’ ‘You want us to tell him?’ Fred suggests mischievously. ‘Should it be the Janet and John bit or the unexpurgated version?’ Hermione flushes, her eyes full of livid rage, but all she manages is, ‘Not one word, not one!’ He just grins. Then Ron astonishes us all by answering. ‘We may have to.’ My, the carpet is rather fetching tonight. ~~~***~~~ —(Ginny’s POV)— I can’t stop shaking my head as we wait outside Ron and Hermione’s flat for the cab. The story I’m going to try to tell Harry is only half-formed in my mind, the basic structure outlined in broad strokes. Now that tale is competing with Hermione’s annunciation – ha! – to put me in St Mungo’s critical care facility. ‘What did Hermione say to you?’ The question shocks me out of my scheming. ‘She’s pregnant,’ I blurt. Well, it’s the truth. ‘That’s good to hear.’ Purposefully indirect. ‘Why does it upset you?’ Damn. Truth or lie? I think of regaling him with a dreadful story of a termination after, or resulting in, a horrendous break up, or some other excuse. Anything but the truth, I beg myself. That’s too much right now, however petty it might be. Dreams are often better scuttled in the Lethe than visited upon the world. The troubling thing is, I can’t really think of an answer that floats. I think of all the couples, the grinning young marrieds, bearing their giggling sprogs in their arms as I tell myself I’m much too young for all that. And I am, especially in my profession, right? But it’s a half-truth. After tonight, it might not even be that. ‘I’m surprised, is all.’ When I peer at his face, I can tell he’s not convinced - and a little worried. ‘You’re not, are you?’ That’s all I need right now. I thought we had discussed the possibility of children sometime before. I’ve been honest with him throughout our two years – excluding about his past, my job, and my nature – but I can’t really be blamed for any of that, can I? It’s in the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy. Still, instinct takes over. ‘And what if I was?’ I spit rounding on him in self-righteous indignation. One more misspoken word, Potter... ‘After how much we’ve been drinking this weekend, well...’ He shrugs nervously. I’m sorely tempted to launch into a tirade about being an adult, responsible for my own actions, et cetera, et cetera. But the bastard’s right and in my present state I hate him for it. ‘No,’ I mumble sullenly. The streets are busy, packed with tourists and the club set. Ah, to be young and carefree, a sarcastic voice mutters. Even with my even odds, that’s not a bet I’d want to make. Harry may have tried to diffuse the situation by his awkward comment, but all the rage Hermione’s announcement brought resurfaces. Why would she think I’d want to hear something like that right now, on the night I’m going to ruin it all? She’d wrecked my life well enough five years ago; I guess she wanted to keep her perfect record. Uncharacteristically callous, as if being with my brother had an undue influence upon her. Why would she think that Harry’s death would make my life easier? Did she really believe a flick of the wand would solve anything? Harry begs forgiveness, but I haven’t the patience anymore. His voice bears the remorse it did seven years ago when he’d forgotten of my possession by Tom Riddle, which only increases my discomfort. The cab comes too quick, whisks me off to the interrogation cell. The story is half-formed in my mind, the basic structure outlined in broad strokes. The drink didn’t cut deeply enough to dull the nerves I note as I cling desperately to the door. Just a little twist of the wrist and I’ll be able to get away, like a prisoner of war in those old movies Harry watches. But he puts his hand on mine and squeezes it firmly. Bastard. Though I’m furious with him, and myself, I can’t leave now, don’t want to. He deserves the truth. He slumps into the seat, shakes his head, and stares out his window. Still, he doesn’t let go. We’re minutes from the hotel. We should have taken the bus. I’ve decided to tell Harry using the Muggle plaster method: one quick pull, some cursing, and it’s all over. It’s all over... I shudder at the thought, but either he doesn’t notice or is too angry to care. ~~~***~~~ —(Harry’s POV)— Ginny shudders. I’m tempted to put an arm around her and pull her close, but I’ve no desire to lose a limb. It’s enough of a shock that she hasn’t removed her hand from mine. I’ve never seen her so agitated, so quick to anger. My idiotic comments didn’t help any, either. You would think after two years I’d be able to avoid the obvious missteps. Instead, it’s onward to disaster. She’s put up with you for this long, a voice reminds me. She must think you have something to offer. It comes as a great relief when we finally reach the hotel. I glance over at her and smile and am pleasantly surprised when she smiles shakily back. Even so, she keeps her head down as we make our way to the room, though clutching my hand firmly. The worries with which I began this night return in full measure. I wrench off my tie and jacket as soon as I’m able while Ginny walks to the bed and slumps down onto one corner. She clutches her hands so tightly I’m afraid she’ll break both. ‘Harry?’ The tone of her voice surprises me. She’s nervous, her eyes staring through me, unfocused. ‘Yes?’ She’s scaring me now. ‘I’m a,’ a small sigh, ‘a witch.’ She seems surprised that I’m completely unfazed by the revelation. Ever since she declared she was a holistic or homeopathic healer, whichever, I thought it highly probable she was into Wicca or something. So I decide to tease her. ‘So, are you a white witch?’ It’s a bad joke, so I’m not astonished she doesn’t respond. From her purse she extracts a long piece of well-crafted wood that I presume to be her wand. A flick of her wrist later and she’s cupping a small blue flame in her other hand. The incandescent ball doesn’t stop burning when she puts it in water. ‘Er...’ ‘This is just a minor trick,’ she states flatly. ‘Something similar to the Official Secrets Act prevents me and others like me from revealing what we are except under strict circumstances: self-defence, the defence of others, and marrying into non-magical families.’ With the last category, she looked at me and smiled. ‘We’re not supposed to meddle in the world.’ ‘What’s this law called, and how exactly are you prevented from interfering?’ My voice is shaking from anxiety and anger. The resignation evident in her tone and posture worries me, as does the anger threatening to burst forth from within me. I don’t know why I’m angry, me for not being able to see the signs, fear of what else is she capable, or with her for waiting two sodding years to tell me, law be damned. This internal conflict keeps me somewhat calm. She exhales heavily, knowing I’ll not readily accept her answers. Bravely, she launches into a concise discussion of something called the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy – if memory serves – and how all witches and wizards have to abide by its rules or be subject to the discipline of the local ministry of magic, its enforcement officers, and a wizards’ court. Involuntarily, I snort in disbelief. She implores me to listen to what she has to say first (I nod) before condemning her. It’s all too much. Though I sense a certain continuity within her tale, I’m entirely lost. And her use of the word condemn unnerves me. Hesitation strangles her words into a barely audible gasp. I demand in much too loud, too menacing a voice, like a parent hearing a half-heard insult, for her to repeat herself. I’m letting my nerves get the better of me. My outburst does, however, stiffen her resolve. ‘I said,’ her eyes boring furiously into mine, pushing me a few steps back, her delivery flat and charred with rage, ‘will you accept that I’m a witch?’ I only nod nervously and sit down in a nearby chair. Ginny cradles her head in her hands, her red hair curtains her face. I move to her side and try to comfort her, but she pushes me away. She rises from the corner of the bed and paces around the room. ‘Remember the questions I asked on the train?’ she asks her hands. ‘No.’ I aim for non-committal and end up sounding stressed. Another pause, but now she looks into my eyes fixing me in place. ‘Do you remember our first big row? The toaster?’ ‘Yes.’ Where is this going? ‘Remember what happened to your computer the time I sat in your lap?’ Her voice is stern and professional. Police-like. I’m feeling distinctly uncomfortable. I nod and glare at her. ‘Had anything like that ever happened before?’ ‘I dunno.’ ‘What led Siobhan to break it off?’ I really don’t like her talking to me like this. Maybe I should have a solicitor present. ‘Anything in particular?’ ‘Why?’ ‘Please, Harry, just answer my question.’ There’s enough emotion in the voice to think she’s back here with me, that I’m not in some damn interrogation cell. ‘The carafe for the coffee maker exploded next to me,’ I reply. ‘Apparently I’d switched it on without having put in any water.’ ‘Was it turned on?’ Back to the detective’s voice. I feel like I’m in the midst of some terrible film noir. ‘Er, no.’ She stood rigidly before me. Without looking, I feel her eyes upon me. ‘Harry, you were, you are, a wizard.’ She’s imploring me to believe this statement. Instead, I laugh. ‘I’m a chemist.’ ‘You’re that, too,’ The edge in her voice has gone brittle. ‘I am not some bloody magician, or what-have-you.’ The declaration does not drive this reverie from her. She peers sadly into my eyes. ‘I’m just me, no special powers or anything. Look: hocus-pocus, jiggery-pokery.’ I’m gesticulating like a cretin. ‘See? Nothing.’ ‘Then how did the toaster catch fire, the carafe shatter, when neither of them were switched on?’ ‘Maybe there was a power surge,’ I offer. This isn’t going at all well. ‘You might call it that,’ she answers with a grimace. ‘We call it accidental magic.’ ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’ ‘It happens when a witch or wizard loses their emotional control, something like a, er...’ She begins snapping her fingers, unable to think of the term. ‘Short circuit?’ ‘Yes!’ She sounds genuinely pleased, probably thought I understood what she was saying, which only made what I said, automatically, next even worse. ‘Bollocks.’ She deflates completely. ‘No, Harry, it’s the truth.’ ‘How do you know that?’ It’s more a demand than a question. A part of me still thinks this is probably the most elaborate practical joke ever pulled. That part’s determined to see whether she can maintain the gag’s logical consistency. She sits next to me on the corner of the bed again and stares at her hands as they wring themselves raw. ‘Remember when we first met we both seemed to recognise one another, and I said we were old schoolmates.’ Her voice is hoarse but she doesn’t wait for me to respond. ‘That was the truth.’ I snort. Now I’m supposed to have been some sort of sorcerer’s apprentice. Ginny could have just called off the wedding. Another voice in my head tells me to continue listening and not to be so harsh. Finally, she looks me in the face. ‘We were fellow students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.’ I’m sorry. That’s just too much. I’m rolling on the bed, doubled over with laughter. One glance at her face, contorted in her misery, stops me. ‘But I went to grammar school in Surrey,’ I plead. ‘I’ve the certificates and everything, O levels, A levels. I never went to any bloody Hogwarts.’ ‘You did.’ Her voice is flat and alarmingly stern, professional. She collects three letters from her luggage and hands me them, one telling me that I’d been accepted to that magicians’ school while the other two informing whomever of what I assume are test results. She explains to me their marking scheme and their certification tests, that OWLs are the equivalent of O levels, NEWTs of A levels. My head’s spinning, but I manage not to laugh this time. ‘I must not’ve been a very good student,’ I quip, though knowing I hadn’t done much better at grammar school. The subjects did not seem at all familiar to me. ‘I was pretty dreadful at Potions – is that like chemistry?’ ‘No and in a way,’ she mutters. ‘Alchemy is probably a closer analogy.’ What have I got myself into? ‘Right.’ I’m willing to agree that she’s extraordinary in a brand new way now. No one would believe that I’m marrying a witch – I probably can’t even tell anyone that, anyway – but to say that I’m a wizard is plainly ridiculous. ‘I don’t remember any of this,’ I declare rising from the bed, throwing the letters on to a side table. ‘I do recall going to school in Surrey, being in hospital, completing my degree in Edinburgh.’ I’m trying to find an escape route from this argument. ‘I remember us. Can’t that be enough?’ ‘I’m not asking you to remember for me, Harry,’ she avers, ‘but because of what you’re again becoming.’ She pats the space next to her on the bed, but I remain standing. Her hair hides her expression once more before she seeks my eyes. ‘You are becoming a threat to yourself and others.’ I wince and clench my jaw at that statement. ‘It’s not intentional,’ she states calmly, placating me, ‘but you need to master the gifts that are reasserting themselves. The best, the simplest way of doing that is by remembering who you are.’ ‘Then why can’t I remember?’ ~~~***~~~ —(Ginny’s POV)— Harry finally asks the question I’ve been dreading for two years. ‘Because certain people decided it would be better for you to forget.’ I don’t expect him to react. He’s treating this revelation like a scholarly debate, trying to find errors in my reasoning, missed numbers or concepts in my calculations. ‘Because you had suffered enough, and they believed you were about to lose more.’ ‘What do you mean?’ Simple question, loaded with possible answers. I insist that he’s rolls up one of his sleeves past his elbow and compare the differences in coloration. He replies that was from the skin grafts he’d received after the car crash that claimed his parents. His face betrayed some distrust with that long held belief. No graft could be that perfect, some scarring was inevitable. When he looks back at me, a cold fury burns. ‘Who might decide it’d be better that I forget?’ He’s still not convinced by my story. I wouldn’t be were I in his place. Still, his voice bears the weight of suspicion for which I’m the only available target. ‘I can’t say.’ ‘Who?’ The tone is brittle, crackles with menace. I’ve only seen the new Harry this mad once before. We were in Edinburgh playing a pick-up game of football with a few of his friends and a couple of newcomers. One of the new lads checked me a little over-enthusiastically, sending me sprawling. Only memories of Quidditch and Auror training prevented me from sustaining a worse injury. I was about to use a little more of that training on him when Harry strode over demanding an apology for me. This lad was about twice Harry’s size, but he initially wavered from responding when met with the voice and the glower. The bloke finally told Harry off and left the park with a broken nose and a couple of chipped teeth. He never came back after that. That said, I could take Harry and he’s seen enough of my temper to know it. ‘I. Can’t. Say.’ I match his anger and bitterness. Try anything, Potter, and you’ll rue the day. ‘Bollocks.’ He spins around and sits back down in the chair opposite. I don’t know whether he means my story or that I’m unable to tell him. It’s true, though, all of it. Hermione’s concluding charm seals my lips, and in any case I wouldn’t want to be responsible for Harry going over there in this state even if she wasn’t pregnant. I’m more terrified for Ron’s sake, though. But he just hangs his head in his hands. ~~~***~~~ —(Harry’s POV)— I’m disgusted with myself trying to bully the information out of her. Even if, especially if, I thought it would’ve worked, I shouldn’t have tried. We’ve rowed, hurled insults cavalierly at one another, but never before did I have the impression she thought I’d hit her. I’m desperate to leave this room, everything, to get that image out of my head. I remember when we got home from that pick-up game, after the incident, I sat quavering in the kitchen as Ginny took her shower. Though I felt the bastard deserved to be knocked down a few pegs, I could’ve, should’ve done it differently. Grabbing my coat, I’m ready to leave, but she stops me. ‘Harry, I’d tell you if I could.’ I let go of the doorknob. I do believe her. She’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes raw, imploring me to stay. ‘I can, if you wish, make you forget this conversation and all about me.’ Her defeated tone wounds me, and I understand that the offer was made with the best intentions, but her words are a betrayal. My anger writhes to the tip of my tongue as I seek to master it. ‘Don’t you sodding understand? That’s why we’re in this mess, isn’t it? Some bloody idiot thinking they knew what’s best, swinging sticks about and imagining that the world would right itself, that everybody would either suddenly be too happy or too damn stupid to know the fucking difference. The last thing I need right now is someone messing about in there,’ poking my temple vigorously with my index finger. ‘Especially you.’ I wrench open the door and seethe my way to the lift. After all we’d been through, she’d take that away from me? Not bloody likely. ~~~***~~~ —(Ginny’s POV)— That went swimmingly. I flop down on the bed, dead to the world except for his last words. What did he mean, especially you? My eyes catch the half-empty whisky bottle peering out of a carrier bag, but I decide that if things are to be made right I’ll need all my faculties. A few flicks of the wand and my bag is packed. I wait until midnight, giving him enough time for the pubs to close to come back. A catnap later and two o’clock comes round. If I stay here any longer I’ll never be able to make it. Sending a bitter Hedwig off to Ron and Hermione’s, I Apparate to Edinburgh.
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