Gift for: Quidditchmum - Chasing Ghosts
Title: Chasing Ghosts
Gift for: Quidditchmum
Author: ladywhizbee
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2935
Summary: We can only be said to be truly alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.
Author's Notes: I do hope that you enjoy this. It's turned out to be quite...autumnal...for some reason. I tried to figure out a way to include the American prompts that you had, but instead I included Quidditch and jumpers and whole bunch of other things that make me think of the season, too. Including ghosts. Well, sort of. Anyway, I do hope you like it.
Thank you to my amazing team of betas, second-eyes and cheerleaders--hugs, hugs, hugs--I could not have done this without you.
We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. ~Thornton Wilder
The vibrant autumn leaves rush by Ginny in streaks of red and gold as she races, foot after foot, down the hill, away from the Harpies’ dormitory.
It had taken entirely too long for Gwenog to finally dismiss the team this morning. Pins and needles long, while all the while Ginny sat on her hands hoping-praying-that their furlough wouldn’t suddenly be revoked. But it wasn’t.
Now the whole weekend stretches before her, free and open, and completely carefree.
The wind dances around her as she bursts through the front gates. Breathless, she turns in the direction Harry had told her, only to find a sea of churning leaves and nothing else. She knows he is there, though. Cloaked. She steps forward.
“Harry?”
With a slight rustle of fabric, she quickly finds herself hidden and entwined in a strong set of arms.
“I thought you’d never get here,” Harry breathes.
Ginny grins, kissing him. “Let’s get away from here.”
“Anywhere specific?”
“No-just away.”
Harry matches her grin and nods. “I think I know just the place. Hang on.”
Tightening her arms about him, they vanish, leaving a swirl of leaves in their wake.
*****
The sea of festive faces is startling at first. Red and orange, yellow and blue, they are painted to match the season. Costumes drape across the shoulders of the painted people streaming around them, each decorated with some form of the autumn harvest. Blue corn, orange pumpkins, yellow squash, red apples-she has never seen costumes made entirely of fruit before.
“Where are we?” She tugs on the frayed hem of her jumper, feeling slightly underdressed.
“The Harvest Moon Festival.”
“Oh.” She tilts her head. She’s heard of this before. “Godric’s Hallow?”
Harry nods and takes her hand before being swept up by the crowd. He buys her a garland of red and purple grapes for her hair, and a fey top-hat of woven wheat for himself, and suddenly she feels like a child again with the tail of her garland dangling down the center of her back.
He plucks a grape right beside her ear and pops it into his mouth. Eyes widening, he picks another and offers it to her. It is sweet to bursting and she smiles, grabbing a handful to share. He takes them eagerly, and she laughs. Her garland will be devoured by the end of the day.
“Oh, look Quidditch!” She points toward the sky.
It must be hidden from view because none of the Muggles seem aware of what’s happening over the valley. A motley crew of witches and wizards take to the air. One man with a flowing white beard has strings of sausages draped around his neck, while a much younger witch wears two pumpkins strategically placed on her chest with a corn husk skirt, and another sports a towering hat of cabbages over a robe made of sprouts. It’s clearly a pick-up game.
“Do you want to play?” Harry asks, eyes bright.
“With you.” Ginny nods, capturing his lips. “But not yet, there’s so much more to see.”
She grabs his hand and takes off down the cobblestones, weaving through the vendors and the marketplace. Old men play conkers in a patch of grass on the side of the road, while at the far end a group of much younger men play modern takes on old cockney tunes. The crowd is jubilant.
The smell of the street food is intoxicating. He buys them bacon pasties and mulled cider while she buys them a toffee apple and a gooey raisin cake, and together they sit in the shade of an old knotted tree. The cool earth penetrates through her jeans, and the brittle leaves crackle under the soles of her shoes.
A storyteller sits on the stump of an old tree nearby surrounded by a sea of children. She holds them in rapt attention while the greenery on her festival dress flutters. Ginny can tell that she is magical before she even speaks.
“Listen closely, ducks, because I’m about to tell you a story,” she says. “A true story.A story about three brothers who lived in this very village a long, long time ago.”
Ginny glances over at Harry, food forgotten. There’s a small frown between his eyes.
He knows.
He knows what story the witch is going to share just as Ginny does, and she’s about to suggest that they move somewhere else when he stills her movement with a touch on the arm.
She relaxes, leaning back against his shoulder. Her hand finds his and she plays with the soft wool on the cuff of his jumper.
The woman’s voice floats over the tops of the children’s heads. “There were once three brothers who were travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight.”
The words transport her to cozy nights spent under woolly blankets with her mother at The Burrow. The scariness of the story tempered by the soothing gait of her mother’s voice matching the rhythmic beat of her heart pressed just so under Ginny’s ear.
Almost as if by habit, she presses her ear to Harry’s chest and finds his heartbeat just as soothing. More so, for he actually did cheat Death. Ginny shudders. Is Death still seeking him? Her arms wind their way around Harry and she holds him tight. It will have to go through her first.
The storyteller weaves her way through the words, entrancing the children until the very end when she leans towards them, closing her book. Her voice softens, “It was only when he had attained a great age that the youngest brother finally took off the Cloak of Invisibility and gave it to his son. And he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, as equals, they departed this life.”
They sit quietly together while the tale comes to an end. The storyteller glances over at Harry and it is only a moment before her eyes widen in recognition, but instead of calling attention to him, she gives him a wink and launches into another story which Ginny instantly recognizes as the Fountain of Fair Fortune. Much lighter fare.
Harry stands, and pulls her to her feet with a smile. “Enough of this.”
Ginny heartedly agrees. They’re alive, they should celebrate.
She grabs his hand and runs. He laughs at this, but follows willingly. Instead of leading him back into the crowd, she takes him off the path and into a thick orchard, one where the trees are knotty and twisted and the ground is covered with spent fruit. A cross cut of light glints, making the grass glisten just so, and she stumbles them up against a tree, knocking his woven hat to the ground. The bark of the tree scrapes against her knuckles.
He’s alive.
She presses against him then, kissing him, breathing him in.
She’s alive.
He meets her kiss and then some, twisting his hands in the fabric of her jumper until he finds a slip of exposed skin on the small of her back and takes purchase there. His fingers are sticky with juice from the grapes.
They’re alive.
Tongues sparking, skin tingling, hearts pounding…so alive…and then…fireworks.
Literally.
Harry breaks their kiss in disbelief. “Are those-?”
“Fireworks.” She nods.
Pressed together, they can just see them through the trees and over the valley of the Quidditch game. She would recognize them anywhere. It isn’t every day that you see them in violent pink.
“Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-bangs, to be exact.”
Harry squints. “What do you want to bet that old warlock with the stringed sausages set them off?”
“He did look the rebellious type.” She laughs in the back of her throat, envisioning George as the old man. A hundred years old.
“I wonder if I should go and see-”
She stops him. “You’re off duty, and they’re fireworks.”
“True.” He relaxes at this, and pulls her back to him.
But he isn’t actually there with her anymore. A sort of melancholy has settled in his eyes, weighing on his shoulders, as he continues to watch the fireworks. She bites her lip. He’s thinking of Fred. Or Remus. Or Tonks. Or his parents. Or all of them at once.
Too many ghosts.
But they aren’t ghosts-she and Harry. She knots her hands in the fabric of his jumper just to be sure. They’re real, very here and very now. Death has not captured them yet.
“Fly with me?” he asks, so suddenly that she blinks and then agrees without thinking twice.
He takes her by the hand and they wind their way back through the town, past the storyteller, past the conkers, past the food vendors, and the craft booths until they reach a small shop down a small quiet alley. Bicycles for Rent, the sign says. And brooms, if you know the right questions to ask.
Ginny studies a map on the wall while Harry negotiates with the shop owner and, as she turns to look at the rest of the shop, she notices a faint set of words carved on the side of the map frame, and squints to study it closely. James was here, it says. She smiles. Of course he was.
As Harry walks back towards her carrying their rented brooms, she sweeps her hair off her neck and up into a ponytail. He hands her a bright turquoise broom. His is orange. She can’t help but grimace at the garish colors-although-she tilts her head…Ron would like the orange, if the shop owner would sell it. “Do you think-?”
“Done.” Harry smiles. “Christmas or his birthday?”
She grins, tipping up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Christmas.”
“There’s a path out back that we have to follow, but once we’re outside of the town, we can fly wherever we want.” Harry finishes tightening the strap on his rucksack and slinging it over his shoulder. His eyes catch hers. “Follow me, yeah?”
The path is tree-lined and quiet, she can feel magic vibrating here-like a magical tunnel-as they fly, low to the ground. It isn’t long before they break free of it though, and they climb, adding only a bit of height. She lets Harry continue to lead; he has something that he wants to show her.
She can tell.
The town isn’t far behind, she can still see the sun reflecting off the windows like rubies, but in front of them lies the river and a landscape that dips and weaves, intermittent with rocky pasture and thick patches of trees. The cottages here are few and far between, but they are there, and look as if they have been for centuries, whitewashed stone and tile roofs, wood smoke curling from the chimneys, all nestled in, ready for the long winter ahead.
Families walk back from the festival along the winding road; children running ahead carrying treats while their parents walk more slowly behind, some holding hands, some chatting with neighbors, but all happy, laughing and alive. And it’s in this moment she realizes...to have that, that indiscernible, envious thing…her heart ceases…what treasure.
Just in front of them is a cottage, a cozy home with a garden that slopes gently and ends when it meets the river. Dotted around it are large round oaks, the kind that are as wide as they are tall, with draping arms and brilliant yellow leaves that seem to embrace the earth. The low garden wall is laced with dark purple ivy, and the back door is a brilliant bright red.
Harry lands on the grass and Ginny follows.
The cottage is dark. No smoke curls from the chimney, but it doesn’t look abandoned, either. Far from it. There are plants in the windows and an orange cat sits on the stone step watching their descent with feigned disinterest. The home looks cozy, warm and inviting, like a place she might have imagined once while dreaming.
Harry abandons his broom by the garden wall and turns, holding his hand out to her. She willingly takes it, tucking into him. He kisses her hairline and, taking a deep breath, begins to walk with her towards the back door.
“This place belonged to my grandparents-my dad’s family, not my-” he pauses a moment. “Hermione figured it out.”
She studies the cottage again. “It’s lovely. I can imagine your father growing up here.”
He nods.
The orange cat has left her perch on the step and is now weaving through Harry’s legs. Ginny stoops down to run her hand along its silky back and startles when she hears Harry call the cat by name. She looks up. “Mottie?”
“Bergamot,” he replies before looking apologetic. “Mrs. Morgan, the woman who lives here-she’s visiting her daughter this weekend-she told me we should stop by, encouraged me actually, but now that we’re here…I just…I don’t…”
She watches as he looks up at the cottage. A million thoughts seem to race behind his eyes. She’s patient though, and waits.
“Do you think…” He glances down at her. “Am I chasing ghosts?”
The question startles her. “Ghosts?”
“Yeah…my parents, my grandparents…” he inhales a deep breath, pulling her towards the stone step where they sit, curled together. “I mean, I didn’t think I was. But then when I heard the Tale of the Three Brothers again…and then the fireworks…I dunno, maybe I am. Maybe I’m trying to resurrect ghosts.”
“How?” She’s even more confused now. “The Resurrection Stone was lost.”
“No, no…that’s not what I mean.” He runs a hand through his hair before taking a breath. “This place…this cottage…it’s for sale. That’s how Hermione found out about it. I came by to see it last week thinking maybe it would be interesting and Mrs. Morgan…she knew my grandparents a little and my parents even more…she told me stories.”
“Stories about your family are hardly ghosts-or even ghost stories-they’re a part of who you are, Harry. Your history.”
“Yeah, maybe. Maybe so.” He considers this. “Did you know the house has a larder? And the door frame has marks in it-measurements of my dad’s height. The last one was when he turned seventeen.”
“Are you taller?”
He laughs with a shrug.
“I so would have checked. But then I’m short. And competitive. What else did she tell you?”
“That my grandfather sat on the Wizengamot, and my grandmother was a Herbologist,” He pauses, she can almost see all the stories floating through his mind, one by one, as he chooses which one to share next. “And that if you look in town, nearly every building has the words ‘James was here’ carved out somewhere on the rafters, but he was so well-liked no one cared to remove them.”
“I saw one at the bicycle shop, not on the rafter, though.” She isn’t at all surprised to learn that there are more. “And your mum?”
“She liked Ice Mice.”
Ginny wrinkles her nose. “Ice Mice?”
“Yeah…apparently…when she was pregnant with me she acquired a taste for them.” He shrugs, waving his hand. “Mrs. Morgan said that my dad would buy bag loads of them just to hear her chatter and squeak like a mouse when she ate them. They would roll around laughing for hours. Mrs. Morgan thought they had gone around the twist, I think.”
Ginny grins. “All of those are lovely things to know.”
He nods, though she can tell he’s still not convinced.
“Listen,” she says, taking his hand, “if it were me who had grown up not knowing my family-my real family-I would want to know everything. I would want to know that my grandmother liked plants. That my dad had a tendency towards graffiti, and that my mum was addicted to a sweet that made her squeak. All these things are important,” she adds, leaning towards him. “And they’re real-just like-just like-this step we’re sitting on. Or this house. Or us. We exist. There are no ghosts here, only real people with real stories.”
“You think?”
“Yes.” She tilts her chin. “I do.”
He lets her words settle a bit and then pulls her into to him.
“All right, then,” he concedes. “No ghosts.”
“Just us,” she says.
“Just us.”
“And Mottie, apparently,” she adds, as the cat curls at their feet.
Harry smiles at this.
“So,” Ginny says looking up at him, “may I see inside the house?”
“Do you want to?”
“I would.”
Harry stands to search out the key under the flower pot and, once found, they step across the threshold into the kitchen. Mottie skirts in on their heels just as Harry closes the door.
A large basket sits on the kitchen table, full of food and a note from Mrs. Morgan. He pauses to read it and Ginny circles the kitchen, running her fingers along the length of the table. The wood is soft under her fingertips.
The whitewashed walls are pristine and the windows have handmade glass that give a slightly distorted view of the world outside. It’s then that she sees it, while looking at the muted colors of the back garden, etched in tiny print along a beam of one of the windows.
James was here.
With a small smile she pulls out her wand, holding it loosely for only a second before she carves in tiny penmanship, right underneath.
Harry and Ginny were here, too.
Gift for: Quidditchmum
Author: ladywhizbee
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2935
Summary: We can only be said to be truly alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.
Author's Notes: I do hope that you enjoy this. It's turned out to be quite...autumnal...for some reason. I tried to figure out a way to include the American prompts that you had, but instead I included Quidditch and jumpers and whole bunch of other things that make me think of the season, too. Including ghosts. Well, sort of. Anyway, I do hope you like it.
Thank you to my amazing team of betas, second-eyes and cheerleaders--hugs, hugs, hugs--I could not have done this without you.
We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. ~Thornton Wilder
The vibrant autumn leaves rush by Ginny in streaks of red and gold as she races, foot after foot, down the hill, away from the Harpies’ dormitory.
It had taken entirely too long for Gwenog to finally dismiss the team this morning. Pins and needles long, while all the while Ginny sat on her hands hoping-praying-that their furlough wouldn’t suddenly be revoked. But it wasn’t.
Now the whole weekend stretches before her, free and open, and completely carefree.
The wind dances around her as she bursts through the front gates. Breathless, she turns in the direction Harry had told her, only to find a sea of churning leaves and nothing else. She knows he is there, though. Cloaked. She steps forward.
“Harry?”
With a slight rustle of fabric, she quickly finds herself hidden and entwined in a strong set of arms.
“I thought you’d never get here,” Harry breathes.
Ginny grins, kissing him. “Let’s get away from here.”
“Anywhere specific?”
“No-just away.”
Harry matches her grin and nods. “I think I know just the place. Hang on.”
Tightening her arms about him, they vanish, leaving a swirl of leaves in their wake.
*****
The sea of festive faces is startling at first. Red and orange, yellow and blue, they are painted to match the season. Costumes drape across the shoulders of the painted people streaming around them, each decorated with some form of the autumn harvest. Blue corn, orange pumpkins, yellow squash, red apples-she has never seen costumes made entirely of fruit before.
“Where are we?” She tugs on the frayed hem of her jumper, feeling slightly underdressed.
“The Harvest Moon Festival.”
“Oh.” She tilts her head. She’s heard of this before. “Godric’s Hallow?”
Harry nods and takes her hand before being swept up by the crowd. He buys her a garland of red and purple grapes for her hair, and a fey top-hat of woven wheat for himself, and suddenly she feels like a child again with the tail of her garland dangling down the center of her back.
He plucks a grape right beside her ear and pops it into his mouth. Eyes widening, he picks another and offers it to her. It is sweet to bursting and she smiles, grabbing a handful to share. He takes them eagerly, and she laughs. Her garland will be devoured by the end of the day.
“Oh, look Quidditch!” She points toward the sky.
It must be hidden from view because none of the Muggles seem aware of what’s happening over the valley. A motley crew of witches and wizards take to the air. One man with a flowing white beard has strings of sausages draped around his neck, while a much younger witch wears two pumpkins strategically placed on her chest with a corn husk skirt, and another sports a towering hat of cabbages over a robe made of sprouts. It’s clearly a pick-up game.
“Do you want to play?” Harry asks, eyes bright.
“With you.” Ginny nods, capturing his lips. “But not yet, there’s so much more to see.”
She grabs his hand and takes off down the cobblestones, weaving through the vendors and the marketplace. Old men play conkers in a patch of grass on the side of the road, while at the far end a group of much younger men play modern takes on old cockney tunes. The crowd is jubilant.
The smell of the street food is intoxicating. He buys them bacon pasties and mulled cider while she buys them a toffee apple and a gooey raisin cake, and together they sit in the shade of an old knotted tree. The cool earth penetrates through her jeans, and the brittle leaves crackle under the soles of her shoes.
A storyteller sits on the stump of an old tree nearby surrounded by a sea of children. She holds them in rapt attention while the greenery on her festival dress flutters. Ginny can tell that she is magical before she even speaks.
“Listen closely, ducks, because I’m about to tell you a story,” she says. “A true story.A story about three brothers who lived in this very village a long, long time ago.”
Ginny glances over at Harry, food forgotten. There’s a small frown between his eyes.
He knows.
He knows what story the witch is going to share just as Ginny does, and she’s about to suggest that they move somewhere else when he stills her movement with a touch on the arm.
She relaxes, leaning back against his shoulder. Her hand finds his and she plays with the soft wool on the cuff of his jumper.
The woman’s voice floats over the tops of the children’s heads. “There were once three brothers who were travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight.”
The words transport her to cozy nights spent under woolly blankets with her mother at The Burrow. The scariness of the story tempered by the soothing gait of her mother’s voice matching the rhythmic beat of her heart pressed just so under Ginny’s ear.
Almost as if by habit, she presses her ear to Harry’s chest and finds his heartbeat just as soothing. More so, for he actually did cheat Death. Ginny shudders. Is Death still seeking him? Her arms wind their way around Harry and she holds him tight. It will have to go through her first.
The storyteller weaves her way through the words, entrancing the children until the very end when she leans towards them, closing her book. Her voice softens, “It was only when he had attained a great age that the youngest brother finally took off the Cloak of Invisibility and gave it to his son. And he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, as equals, they departed this life.”
They sit quietly together while the tale comes to an end. The storyteller glances over at Harry and it is only a moment before her eyes widen in recognition, but instead of calling attention to him, she gives him a wink and launches into another story which Ginny instantly recognizes as the Fountain of Fair Fortune. Much lighter fare.
Harry stands, and pulls her to her feet with a smile. “Enough of this.”
Ginny heartedly agrees. They’re alive, they should celebrate.
She grabs his hand and runs. He laughs at this, but follows willingly. Instead of leading him back into the crowd, she takes him off the path and into a thick orchard, one where the trees are knotty and twisted and the ground is covered with spent fruit. A cross cut of light glints, making the grass glisten just so, and she stumbles them up against a tree, knocking his woven hat to the ground. The bark of the tree scrapes against her knuckles.
He’s alive.
She presses against him then, kissing him, breathing him in.
She’s alive.
He meets her kiss and then some, twisting his hands in the fabric of her jumper until he finds a slip of exposed skin on the small of her back and takes purchase there. His fingers are sticky with juice from the grapes.
They’re alive.
Tongues sparking, skin tingling, hearts pounding…so alive…and then…fireworks.
Literally.
Harry breaks their kiss in disbelief. “Are those-?”
“Fireworks.” She nods.
Pressed together, they can just see them through the trees and over the valley of the Quidditch game. She would recognize them anywhere. It isn’t every day that you see them in violent pink.
“Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-bangs, to be exact.”
Harry squints. “What do you want to bet that old warlock with the stringed sausages set them off?”
“He did look the rebellious type.” She laughs in the back of her throat, envisioning George as the old man. A hundred years old.
“I wonder if I should go and see-”
She stops him. “You’re off duty, and they’re fireworks.”
“True.” He relaxes at this, and pulls her back to him.
But he isn’t actually there with her anymore. A sort of melancholy has settled in his eyes, weighing on his shoulders, as he continues to watch the fireworks. She bites her lip. He’s thinking of Fred. Or Remus. Or Tonks. Or his parents. Or all of them at once.
Too many ghosts.
But they aren’t ghosts-she and Harry. She knots her hands in the fabric of his jumper just to be sure. They’re real, very here and very now. Death has not captured them yet.
“Fly with me?” he asks, so suddenly that she blinks and then agrees without thinking twice.
He takes her by the hand and they wind their way back through the town, past the storyteller, past the conkers, past the food vendors, and the craft booths until they reach a small shop down a small quiet alley. Bicycles for Rent, the sign says. And brooms, if you know the right questions to ask.
Ginny studies a map on the wall while Harry negotiates with the shop owner and, as she turns to look at the rest of the shop, she notices a faint set of words carved on the side of the map frame, and squints to study it closely. James was here, it says. She smiles. Of course he was.
As Harry walks back towards her carrying their rented brooms, she sweeps her hair off her neck and up into a ponytail. He hands her a bright turquoise broom. His is orange. She can’t help but grimace at the garish colors-although-she tilts her head…Ron would like the orange, if the shop owner would sell it. “Do you think-?”
“Done.” Harry smiles. “Christmas or his birthday?”
She grins, tipping up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Christmas.”
“There’s a path out back that we have to follow, but once we’re outside of the town, we can fly wherever we want.” Harry finishes tightening the strap on his rucksack and slinging it over his shoulder. His eyes catch hers. “Follow me, yeah?”
The path is tree-lined and quiet, she can feel magic vibrating here-like a magical tunnel-as they fly, low to the ground. It isn’t long before they break free of it though, and they climb, adding only a bit of height. She lets Harry continue to lead; he has something that he wants to show her.
She can tell.
The town isn’t far behind, she can still see the sun reflecting off the windows like rubies, but in front of them lies the river and a landscape that dips and weaves, intermittent with rocky pasture and thick patches of trees. The cottages here are few and far between, but they are there, and look as if they have been for centuries, whitewashed stone and tile roofs, wood smoke curling from the chimneys, all nestled in, ready for the long winter ahead.
Families walk back from the festival along the winding road; children running ahead carrying treats while their parents walk more slowly behind, some holding hands, some chatting with neighbors, but all happy, laughing and alive. And it’s in this moment she realizes...to have that, that indiscernible, envious thing…her heart ceases…what treasure.
Just in front of them is a cottage, a cozy home with a garden that slopes gently and ends when it meets the river. Dotted around it are large round oaks, the kind that are as wide as they are tall, with draping arms and brilliant yellow leaves that seem to embrace the earth. The low garden wall is laced with dark purple ivy, and the back door is a brilliant bright red.
Harry lands on the grass and Ginny follows.
The cottage is dark. No smoke curls from the chimney, but it doesn’t look abandoned, either. Far from it. There are plants in the windows and an orange cat sits on the stone step watching their descent with feigned disinterest. The home looks cozy, warm and inviting, like a place she might have imagined once while dreaming.
Harry abandons his broom by the garden wall and turns, holding his hand out to her. She willingly takes it, tucking into him. He kisses her hairline and, taking a deep breath, begins to walk with her towards the back door.
“This place belonged to my grandparents-my dad’s family, not my-” he pauses a moment. “Hermione figured it out.”
She studies the cottage again. “It’s lovely. I can imagine your father growing up here.”
He nods.
The orange cat has left her perch on the step and is now weaving through Harry’s legs. Ginny stoops down to run her hand along its silky back and startles when she hears Harry call the cat by name. She looks up. “Mottie?”
“Bergamot,” he replies before looking apologetic. “Mrs. Morgan, the woman who lives here-she’s visiting her daughter this weekend-she told me we should stop by, encouraged me actually, but now that we’re here…I just…I don’t…”
She watches as he looks up at the cottage. A million thoughts seem to race behind his eyes. She’s patient though, and waits.
“Do you think…” He glances down at her. “Am I chasing ghosts?”
The question startles her. “Ghosts?”
“Yeah…my parents, my grandparents…” he inhales a deep breath, pulling her towards the stone step where they sit, curled together. “I mean, I didn’t think I was. But then when I heard the Tale of the Three Brothers again…and then the fireworks…I dunno, maybe I am. Maybe I’m trying to resurrect ghosts.”
“How?” She’s even more confused now. “The Resurrection Stone was lost.”
“No, no…that’s not what I mean.” He runs a hand through his hair before taking a breath. “This place…this cottage…it’s for sale. That’s how Hermione found out about it. I came by to see it last week thinking maybe it would be interesting and Mrs. Morgan…she knew my grandparents a little and my parents even more…she told me stories.”
“Stories about your family are hardly ghosts-or even ghost stories-they’re a part of who you are, Harry. Your history.”
“Yeah, maybe. Maybe so.” He considers this. “Did you know the house has a larder? And the door frame has marks in it-measurements of my dad’s height. The last one was when he turned seventeen.”
“Are you taller?”
He laughs with a shrug.
“I so would have checked. But then I’m short. And competitive. What else did she tell you?”
“That my grandfather sat on the Wizengamot, and my grandmother was a Herbologist,” He pauses, she can almost see all the stories floating through his mind, one by one, as he chooses which one to share next. “And that if you look in town, nearly every building has the words ‘James was here’ carved out somewhere on the rafters, but he was so well-liked no one cared to remove them.”
“I saw one at the bicycle shop, not on the rafter, though.” She isn’t at all surprised to learn that there are more. “And your mum?”
“She liked Ice Mice.”
Ginny wrinkles her nose. “Ice Mice?”
“Yeah…apparently…when she was pregnant with me she acquired a taste for them.” He shrugs, waving his hand. “Mrs. Morgan said that my dad would buy bag loads of them just to hear her chatter and squeak like a mouse when she ate them. They would roll around laughing for hours. Mrs. Morgan thought they had gone around the twist, I think.”
Ginny grins. “All of those are lovely things to know.”
He nods, though she can tell he’s still not convinced.
“Listen,” she says, taking his hand, “if it were me who had grown up not knowing my family-my real family-I would want to know everything. I would want to know that my grandmother liked plants. That my dad had a tendency towards graffiti, and that my mum was addicted to a sweet that made her squeak. All these things are important,” she adds, leaning towards him. “And they’re real-just like-just like-this step we’re sitting on. Or this house. Or us. We exist. There are no ghosts here, only real people with real stories.”
“You think?”
“Yes.” She tilts her chin. “I do.”
He lets her words settle a bit and then pulls her into to him.
“All right, then,” he concedes. “No ghosts.”
“Just us,” she says.
“Just us.”
“And Mottie, apparently,” she adds, as the cat curls at their feet.
Harry smiles at this.
“So,” Ginny says looking up at him, “may I see inside the house?”
“Do you want to?”
“I would.”
Harry stands to search out the key under the flower pot and, once found, they step across the threshold into the kitchen. Mottie skirts in on their heels just as Harry closes the door.
A large basket sits on the kitchen table, full of food and a note from Mrs. Morgan. He pauses to read it and Ginny circles the kitchen, running her fingers along the length of the table. The wood is soft under her fingertips.
The whitewashed walls are pristine and the windows have handmade glass that give a slightly distorted view of the world outside. It’s then that she sees it, while looking at the muted colors of the back garden, etched in tiny print along a beam of one of the windows.
James was here.
With a small smile she pulls out her wand, holding it loosely for only a second before she carves in tiny penmanship, right underneath.
Harry and Ginny were here, too.