045. Name
Title: Name
Character(s): Ginny, Original Muggle Female, Harry
Rating: PG, maybe.
Prompt Set: 50.3
Prompt: Name
Word Count: 1731
Warnings: Mentions of Sexual Behaviour
Summary: Strangers are easier to talk to than family or friends. They're especially easier to talk to than the man you love but can't bring yourself to apologise to. Nostalgia, Guilt, and Regret make appearances.
Notes: Inspired by prompt 045 of my table.
It had been four months since the memorial service; since she’d seen him. It wasn’t as if they were avoiding each other, but a few million seconds going by before she thought of him had made her wonder if perhaps, subconsciously… Was she still sore? Did she still want him? He’d made it perfectly clear how he felt, though, so she sighed and sipped her too-sweet lukewarm tea. The owner smiled at her when she returned her mug to the dish counter/checkout counter/change machine/bar. It was an odd conglomerate she’d wandered into, wittily called The Quartz and Feldspar. The pub/diner/general store/laundromat catered mostly to the Isle of Man’s locals, but it was the only hotel around when Ginny had arrived, so despite the tea, here she stayed, trying to work out what to do, where to go…if she even wanted to go.
The owner smiled at her, a mysterious secretive smile with gloss lips and perfect teeth. That smile - this entire place - was very unsurprisingly owned by an American bird straight out of the seventies, all strange jewelry, long hair, and long skirts, but too young to have actually lived it; maybe only a few years older than Ginny. She didn’t look perfectly the part, either. A more modern camisole did nothing to hide freckled shoulders or an edge of cleavage. Ginny wondered if so many men would stare at her if she were dressed like that, maybe transfigured her hair longer. She felt a little dirty, thinking that. Magic made things too easy. This woman had probably been growing her hair for at least a decade, had been born with grace or practiced for it, never considered taking a potion that would let her skate across the floor like she was, bare feet and trailing skirt, swirling and swinging to the unfamiliar but not unpleasant music streaming throughout the homely little shop.
“What happened?” she asked with an accent, face flushed from singing along with the music, leaning on the counter to catch her balance.
“Pardon?” Ginny said, suddenly the archetypal British prude. Ha.
“You’ve looked up at every guy that’s walked in, but not checking them out. More…pining, no offense. Have you lost somebody?” She said it, just like that. Lost. As if she’d just misplaced him. Ginny nodded, unable to find words to contradict her.
“What’d you do?”
Ginny started, glanced around. At the door with the copper bell that jangled every time it was opened. At the white washing machines lined up against one wall, fading into white dryers. At the alcohol right next to cigarettes and room keys. At the candy aisle, with its beckoning chocolate. And as if she didn’t look suspicious enough, glancing around, she topped it off with “Why do you think I did something?”
The proprietor laughed. “You’d look more pissed if he’d done something, and would’ve gone after him already if it were just circumstances. So…what’d you do?”
Ginny didn’t answer for a long moment; the song had ended, the silence built up. Eventually, she began to spill it all, let it tumble out like dumping over an old box - she hadn’t realised how jumbled it had gotten over time, how much she had forgotten about. “Long story short, I’ve been in love with him since I was eleven. He saved my life - literally. Not to mention he was kindof famous, and my brother’s best friend. A year older, and even if he was a kid, too, he always seemed so much more mature to me.” She paused, tried to work out how to censor it for a Muggle. How to censor insanity. “We went to the same boarding school, and he played sports. I joined the team when I was fifteen just so I could play beside him. That was the year we go together, but, like you said, circumstances.” The woman on the other side of the bar raised an eyebrow. “No, really. His parents had been killed when he was just a baby, and the guy was after him, too. He had to go into hiding for the summer, didn’t want me in danger. When school started again, he avoided me. Didn’t want me involved, I guess, but at the time…he wouldn’t speak to me, was always studying, training. At the end of the year he was s??? and it paid off. The…guy…who was after him - he stormed the school. Stormed because by that time it wasn’t just him. Years before, he’d had followers. Cult-like. And apparently murder and mayhem were popular, again, because he had a couple hundred guys with him when he came to the school. My guy ended up killing the murder, in the end, but for nearly six months he wouldn’t smile. Sure, he’d gotten revenge, and for once in his life he was actually safe, but killing somebody…it changes you.
“It was a friend of mine that finally got him to laugh. I was so jealous of her for the longest time, but she was serious with a guy from uni, so I got over it. Circumstances had changed, and we fell in love all over again. It was a few years later, I was nineteen, engaged. I didn’t think I’d ever lived, you know. I’d never dated in school, always thought of myself as his, and, besides, my older brother was enough of a bad example that I didn’t want to follow in his shoes. I did even worse, though, by stifling myself. I was in love, deliriously happy, but I was horribly afraid of commitment, and didn’t know what to do. I felt trapped. I don’t even know, now, if I regret it. I went to Lisbon for research - it was supposed to be an overnight trip. Instead, I stayed a week and a half drinking margaritas at a lake house with a handsome blond painter. He called me a ‘fine piece of ar- t’ with a smile on his face and I bent him over the bar. Snogged him right there. I was supposed to be getting married in a month, but going AWOL just seemed like a good idea at the time. I wore one skirt and shirt for the entire week and a half - when I wore anything. He said being with me was like being on a high he couldn’t come down from. He painted me, and called my skin “alabaster seashell”. I didn’t love him, I didn’t even know him, but he loved my body, and the sex was fantastic. He had such a way with words, and no matter my guy’s strengths, speaking was never one of them. This…stranger…he had an old muscle car, and drove it too fast on old roads. It was dangerous, but he wasn’t worried. He was an aphrodisiac with a tan and too much money. He was a collarbone I couldn’t get enough of. We hated each other, a little, but instead of pointing out each other’s faults, we were in this constant state of arguments and make-up sex. I didn’t love him. …But as much as I know it was a mistake, I love those memories.” Ginny paused, sipped the fresh cup of tea that had appeared at her elbow, thought of what to say next.
“Why did you leave?”
“He tracked me down. My guy. He was worried, and had gone looking for me. Found me naked in a lake with someone else. He…looked at me. He looked so crushed. He’d never had a family, really, was raised by his aunt and uncle, who hated him. His godfather…wasn’t able to meet him until he was thirteen, then died when he was fifteen. Everyone he ever loved left him. Given, usually they were murdered, but still. He never thought he was good enough for me, and it was like I proved his worst fears. He left, and I didn’t see him for nearly five years. Until a few months ago, one of our old teachers died, and the old gang got together for his memorial service. I saw him there, but didn’t talk to him. It’s been years, and he’s obviously no longer interested, but I can’t stop thinking about him.” She sighed, shook her head, reached into her jeans pocket. The woman’s eyes widened when the diamonds and emeralds sparkled in the electric light. “I can’t wear it after what I did, but I can’t bear to part with it, either.”
“Oh my. It’s gorgeous. And you love him. So…what’s wrong? Does he snore? Hit you? Talk endlessly about his childhood drama - obviously, he had enough of it - ? Why in the world didn’t you two live happily ever after?”
“I don’t know. He’s nice. Honourable, brilliant sense of humour, courageous, rich, sexy as hell, yes he snores, but only a little. He would only hit a woman if she were trying to kill him, and to tell you the truth, he actually downplays the drama. He’s kindof famous, but hates it. He’s got this amazing windswept hair, bright green eyes. Muscles, but a brain, too. He’s sensitive, sweet, kindof an idiot sometimes, but he always apologises…unlike me.” The owner was looking piteously at her, but Ginny knew she was really wondering what sort of a nutcase would let a guy like that get away, so she dropped her head onto the bar. “I’m scum,” she mumbled into the wood.
“Now, if that were true, you wouldn’t have me chasing you all over the British Isles” he said. She hadn’t noticed the bell chime.
He was wearing the beat-up leather jacket Sirius had left him, and she could see the motorbike through the one-way glass. His black jeans hugged in all the right places, and his eyes were cool like a frigid pool on a hot day.
“Fuck me senseless and then kill me” murmured the bartender/waitress/cashier/owner. Ginny couldn’t tell if it was an expletive or an honest request.
“Harry? What are you doing here?”
“I thought I just said. Looking for you. But the same - what in the world are you doing in this place?”
She felt fifteen again with hyperactive butterflies in her abdomen. “Er…just getting a cuppa. Talking to…” She stared, trying to remember what the woman’s name was before she made a fool of herself. Did she even know it?
“Mattie.” Mattie, that was right, offered. “You must be Hot Stuff.”