Idyll (HP)
Title: Idyll
Rating: R/NC-17
Summary: A simple descriptive work in poetry or prose that deals with rustic life or pastoral scenes or suggests a mood of peace and contentment; a romantic interlude.
Notes: Written for, and dedicated to, the wonderful, sweet, and incredibly talented reallycorking, in honor of her birthday. My thanks to r_becca for rising to the challenge of beta-reading this behemoth.
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.
Deep within Exmoor National Park, well off the beaten paths preferred by the tourists that flock there every summer, lie the ruins of an old grange, abandoned long ago when its inhabitants (their forebears having had to fend for themselves after the Cistercian abbey the grange had originally belonged to dissolved in the sixteenth century) gave up the livelihood of animal husbandry that had sustained them for generations and left to seek their fortunes in the factories up north. To those hardy Muggles who do happen by, it is a picturesque sight, the foundations of medieval outbuildings marked only by unnaturally-arranged piles of stones and irregular growing patterns in the vegetation clustered around the farmhouse's surviving chimney like chicks around a watchful hen. A herd of semi-wild ponies, occasionally joined at dawn or dusk by red deer, grazes the surrounding moorland. In August, when the native heather is in bloom, the moorland turns livid with color, shades of purple and mauve clamoring for attention from the bees that hum amongst the vegetation.
On the whole, it is a tranquil scene, and many a backpacker has been inspired to strike a tent and camp for the night, surrounded by the sound of equine teeth cropping the heather below and the silent glitter of the stars above. Without fail, though, before the first tent peg breaks ground, the intruder is overcome by an irrational compulsion to seek the comforts of civilization, with hot-water-filled baths and flush toilets and beds with springy mattresses and well-laundered duvets and heavy, hearty pub food. Many an inn in the neighboring villages--the nearest almost ten kilometers away--has done good business thanks to the strange fits suffered by visitors to what has come to be known as "No Man's Moor," and many a pint has been consumed in sharing tales about the strange hallucinations experienced there.
What these poor Muggles do not know, what they cannot imagine, is that they have encountered a very powerful enchantment cast several years before by a most unremarkable-looking young man (unremarkable save for a rather odd lightning bolt-shaped scar across his forehead) as part of a wedding present to his bride-to-be. Were they able to break through the enchantment, they would see the grange fully restored, with smoke curling from both farmhouse chimneys on cold mornings; one of the outbuildings housing a battered old motorbike and another containing a collection of brooms; a small duck-pond (ducks included); and a sturdy fence around everything to keep the ponies and deer from trampling the garden.
Were these interlopers granted the ability to view the grange's second life as though it were a cinema, they might observe the team of builders hired to reconstruct it as it had once been (with modern conveniences, of course); or the out-of-thin-air appearance one brilliant August day of the young man and his bride, both in wedding apparel, and the way the young man swept her off her feet with a kiss and carried her over the threshold into their new home; or the Porlock keeping a watchful eye over the ponies; or gnomes scampering around the garden, fleeing the chubby, sticky clutches of a small boy with turquoise hair. Rather than the bewilderment that compels them to leave this place and seek out the company of others, they would feel the warm glow of contentment that suffuses the grange, rooted in and nurtured by the mutual love and affection of its present master and mistress. The grange is their home, however, not a way station for weary backpackers or a spectacle for tourists to gawk at, and so the young man regularly checks the integrity of the protective enchantments he put up when he bought the place, ensuring this idyll he has created for himself and his wife--and someday, he hopes, their children--will remain unmolested.
~
On a Saturday afternoon near the end of May, nearly six years after the conclusive end to Lord Voldemort's reign of terror, the grange's tranquility is broken by a succession of pops. Three women appear just outside the fence, their arms laden with shopping bags and bakeware and other items. One of them, the apparent leader of the group, is clearly much older than her companions, her once-red hair scarcely visible through the gray that has overtaken it. Her energy and enthusiasm remains indefatigable, however, and she bustles through the garden gate and up to the house to let herself in, calling over her shoulder, "Hermione, Audrey, hurry up! We've got loads to do before the others arrive." The two younger women, accustomed to being ordered around in this fashion, do not even exchange a commiserative look as they follow her inside.
Soon the sounds of a kitchen overrun with too many cooks drifts through the open window. At one point a puff of greenish smoke belches forth from the chimney at the north end, and a well-trained ear can detect new voices, at least one of them French-accented and another belonging to a small child. Then a radio crackles to life and the broadcast of some sort of athletic event drowns out all conversation. It is obvious, however, that the women are listening, as they can frequently be heard exhorting this or that player, "Ginny" in particular, or the team ("C'mon, Harpies" is a common refrain) as a whole.
Around mid-afternoon the roar of the spectators can be heard over the static and the sportscaster announces that "Sigurdsson has caught the Snitch! Ballycastle wins, 250 to 210" to a chorus of jeers from within the house. From within the house a voice says, "Oh, what a shame for Ginny," while another says, "I expect people to start arriving any minute now."
Sure enough, only a few moments pass before more pops cause the Porlock to raise its head and sniff the air suspiciously as a crowd of people materialize from nowhere just beyond the fence. This time there are men as well as women, of all ages. Many of the men have distinctively red hair. One of the women is dark-skinned, with braids that reach halfway down her back. A younger man with horn-rimmed glasses carries a sleeping baby in his arms. Many of them are wearing shirts or jumpers or hats or carrying banners in gold-accented dark green, emblazoned with a large gold "H." Talking animatedly amongst themselves--there must be at least a dozen different conversations taking place simultaneously--they all head inside the house, where the chimney continues to belch green smoke intermittently.
Two more pops reveal a slim, erect woman in tartan robes and square spectacles, her dark hair betraying only a hint of gray, and a younger, shorter, powerfully-built red-haired man with singe marks decorating his moderately shabby clothing. He offers his arm to his companion and leads her to the front door, which is thrown open by a bald man with an enormous belly straining to break free of his waistcoat and a bushy, walrus-like moustache, a piece of crystallized pineapple in his other hand. "Minerva!" he cries. "Come in, come in. You too, Weasley," he continues, stepping aside so they can get by. "Oh, I was just thinking of my old friend Raskolnikov--you know her, don't you?--" The door closes before Weasley's knowledge of Raskolnikov can be affirmed or denied. All of the windows have been thrown open, however, and it is audibly clear that this is a gathering of dear friends--and family, if the predominance of red hair is any indication. The atmosphere of good spirits and fellowship is unmistakable.
About twenty minutes later two more pops momentarily disturb the Porlock, but it immediately recognizes the newcomers and returns to grazing. It is the young man of before, the master of this little patch of paradise. He holds the hand of a young, turquoise-haired boy and beside him is his lovely bride. Two of the ponies, remembering the boy's fondness for feeding them pumpkin pasties from the other side of the fence, cease grazing and approach cautiously, their heads jerking upward in the hopes of detecting a whiff of a tasty treat, their velvet-soft muzzles querying.
The young woman, dressed, like her husband, in casual attire, carries a long, slim case that is bell-shaped at one end, like something a trombone player might use to carry his instrument, and in the other hand she holds a more conventional suitcase. As snatches of conversation emanating from inside her house reach her ears, she turns with a raised eyebrow to her husband. "Harry, what's going on?"
He grins, then reaches out with his free hand to take her around the waist and bring her in for a kiss. When they break apart he says, "Welcome home, Ginny."
~
Ginny's amazed their house holds so many people, then reckons someone probably cast a few charms to accommodate all the extra guests; she wonders what those Transfigured chairs in her sitting room will turn back into once the spells are lifted. The dining room table is holding up remarkably well, considering how laden it is with food--Mum's and Audrey's doing, no doubt. While Harry takes her things upstairs to their bedroom, giving her a kiss on the cheek as he goes, Ginny tries to take it all in, especially the large banner tacked above her fireplace that reads, "HAPPY RETIREMENT #24."
"Wow," she says, her hand pressed against her cheek. "Wow."
"Surprise!" someone cries, and Ginny's not at all surprised that it's her mum, elbowing her way through the crowd to embrace her. "Welcome home, Ginny dear," she says, and her face is glowing with pride. "You played such a good match today."
This seems to open the floodgates, and Ginny finds herself beset on all sides by well-wishers (and those sympathizing with the Harpies' disappointing loss), many of them relatives by blood or marriage, some familiar faces from Hogwarts, a few teammates past and present. It's almost too much for her to bear all at once, and she's so grateful to feel the reassuring pressure of Harry's hand at her back. She turns to him in wonder. "Is all this for me?"
She loves how expressive his face is, how pride and devotion are there for all the world to see. "It was Audrey's idea at first, and she and your mum and Hermione and Fleur did all the planning, but yeah, we wanted to celebrate the end of your Quidditch-playing career."
"The way everyone's carrying on, you'd think I'd played fifty years, instead of five."
"We'll gladly take ya back, if ya decide ya want ter play fer fifty years," says a deep voice, and Ginny turns to see Gwenog Jones, the Harpies' Captain and Beater, holding out her hand. "Ya gots lots o' good years left in ya, Potter."
"Thanks, Gwen," Ginny says, trying not to wince as the bones in her hand are crushed by Jones' mammoth grip. "I'm honored, really, but it's time for me to move on."
"Well, at least yer retirin', and not signin' on wi' some other team. Ain't that right?" The clap she lands on Harry's shoulder causes him to slop butterbeer all over himself.
"Er - ah - yeah, right, Gwen," he says, handing Ginny the bottle while he tries to blot his shirt dry. "Ginny's a Harpy through and through." His cheeks turn pink as it hits him how this sounds, but Jones is already gone, dragged away by Oliver Wood, who wants to discuss Holyhead's last match with Puddlemere. Harry clears his throat and grins sheepishly at Ginny. "You know what I mean."
She takes a swig of butterbeer before saying, "I do," then wraps her arms around his waist. As she's about to kiss him, however, she glances over his shoulder just in time to see her four-year-old niece push her face forward, her eyes shut and her lips pursed, waiting for a kiss from Harry's six-year-old godson. Judging from the look on the boy's face, he has no intention of fulfilling her wish. Unable to help herself, Ginny giggles.
Harry's eyes snap open. "What?"
Ginny laughs again. "Go rescue Teddy from Victoire before she molests him."
His eyes roll in understanding. "Is she trying to kiss him again?"
"Give it an hour or two. Right now she's still under the delusion he's going to kiss her."
"Right." He detaches himself from her embrace to separate the young lovers.
Ginny takes a moment to look around her. Wherever she looks, people are gathered in twos and threes and fours. All of them look content, secure of their place in this new world--a world that Harry, whom she loves as she cannot imagine loving anyone else, has devoted years to creating. Even when she is far from home, either at the Harpies' training ground on Holyhead Island, or traveling with the team, she knows that Harry wants nothing more than to ensure that someone like Voldemort can never again hold their world hostage. A gathering like this is possible because of Harry's dedication to that task, yet what matters most to her now is that he took time away from his life's work to gather their friends and family here to celebrate her accomplishments. It's a realization that makes her feel giddy with the awesomeness of it.
In one corner Fleur and Audrey are deep in discussion, probably about parenting techniques. Audrey has Molly, still looking somewhat grumpy from her aborted nap, balanced on her hip, while Fleur is trying to make room for a squirming Dominique around her burgeoning abdomen. Ginny smiles as Bill comes to the rescue, bringing a chair for his wife and then scooping Dom up to "fly" above everyone's heads across the room until she lands with a shriek of delight in her grandfather's lap. George and Angelina, the stone on her engagement ring flashing in the sunlight that streams in through a nearby window, are talking to Professor McGonagall and Percy, who can't seem to stop looking anxiously over his shoulder at his wife and daughter. George and Angelina seem happy together, though Ginny knows it's been a rocky road for both of them; hopefully all lingering doubts about their relationship can be erased in time for their wedding this December.
Professor Slughorn seems to have cornered Hermione in the kitchen while Ron hovers nearby with a loaded plate, obviously torn between not wanting to abandon her and worrying that Slughorn will ask him a question the instant his mouth is full. Ginny can't help giggling at the exasperated glower on her brother's face as he wolfs down his sandwich, nor at Hermione's desperate expression as she silently pleads with him to save her. They've only been married a couple of months and it's obvious to Ginny, who married Harry shortly after completing her seventh year at Hogwarts, that they're still going through adjustment pains. Within a year, she reckons, they'll have their looks and signals down to a science. For now, though, it appears that Mum has taken up the role of Hermione's savior by distracting Slughorn with a question about antidotes for Billywig stings, and she and Ron beat a hasty retreat.
Ginny's about to follow them when she spots an unexpected guest setting out butterbeer bottles on the counter. Sidling up to the guest she murmurs, "You can take the girl out of the pub, but you can't take the pub out of the girl, can you?"
Hannah Abbott brushes her hair out of her eyes and gives Ginny a shy but friendly smile. "I think it's ingrained in me," she admits. "Tom gives me the afternoon off, and I end up doing the same thing I do six days a week at the Leaky Cauldron."
Ginny takes one of the bottles from the counter, opens it, and hands it to Hannah. "As lady of the house, I order you to quit working and enjoy yourself."
"Aye, ma'am." Hannah gives her a jaunty salute. "Did you get the flowers Neville sent?"
"I did! I'll be sure to thank him myself, but do tell him the next time you see him I thought they were gorgeous."
She blushes. "Just a little over a month and he'll be back in London."
Ginny can sympathize with the pain of separation; she's spent far more time apart from Harry that she cares to think about. Now that she's retired from the team, she's looking forward to spending more time with him and making the most of married life. "I reckon it's been rough, this being his first year teaching at Hogwarts."
"It has," Hannah says, taking a sip of butterbeer before continuing, "but he promises we'll make up for lost time this summer." She blushes again.
"Nothing beats reunion sex," Ginny says with a wink. "Trust me on this."
"Reunion sex?" a voice says, and Ginny feels a pair of arms come around her from behind. "Are you scandalizing Hannah?"
She leans back against Harry's chest with a sigh. "Not at all. Just telling her what she has to look forward to when Neville comes home at the end of term." His chuckle seems to vibrate through her entire body and she shivers in anticipation of their own, private, reunion after everyone has gone. "Were you able to detach Victoire from Teddy?"
"Charlie's entertaining them with stories from Romania." He points, and she sees her brother seated on the stairs, one child on each knee as he conjures up an image of a Welsh Green. Victoire, who is facing Ginny, is staring at Charlie with huge blue eyes, her thumb firmly planted in her mouth, while streaks of bright green appear in Teddy's hair, evidence of how caught up he is in Charlie's tale.
At the sound of a rustle, Ginny looks down and sees that Harry's holding a piece of paper. She plucks it from his hand. "What's this?" she asks, turning around in his arms to face him.
"Owl from Luna. Came this morning right before I left. She sends her regrets that she couldn't come, but she's busy--"
"--hunting Crumple-Horned Snorkacks," Ginny says, completing the sentence. "Some things never change."
The tip of Harry's tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he considers this. "D'you reckon anyone would notice even if they did?" He squeezes Ginny, lifting her up on her toes, and leans in for a kiss.
"Oi! Ginny!"
Thwarted once again, she pulls away to see that everyone's eyes are on her. Even though she's been watched by thousands of Quidditch fans, lost count of the number of game booklets and posters and brooms and hoodies--and on one memorable occasion, a young man's bare arse--she's autographed, and had her photograph appear in the Daily Prophet at least as many times as Harry has done, being at the center of attention in this small gathering makes her feel self-conscious. "What d'you want?"
"Some of us were wondering what you plan on doing now that you've retired from Quidditch," Angelina says.
"I was wonderin' that m'self," Gwenog agrees.
Oliver snorts. "That's 'cause you can't imagine a life outside Quidditch, Gwen."
"You bet yer Bludgers I can't," she growls.
"If you're looking for a job, there are always plenty of openings at the Ministry," Percy suggests earnestly. "Audrey has connections in Personnel, she'd be happy to find a position that maximizes your skills."
"He's right," Hermione pipes up, even as George launches a wadded-up napkin at Percy's head that knocks his glasses askew. "We could use you in Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, as a matter of fact."
"I think you should send an owl to Madam Hooch," McGonagall interjects. "She's been wanting to retire to the Azores for years. This would be the ideal opportunity for both of you!"
And before Ginny knows it, everyone is talking to and at and over each other, each of them offering their opinion to anyone who's listening (and even those who aren't) on what they think Ginny's next career choice should be. The din is deafening, if the wails of protest coming from Dominique are any indication. Ginny looks at Harry, who without a word sets off a loud bang with his wand that causes Mum to drop the plate she's holding, Teddy to clap his hands over his ears (a move mimicked by Victoire), and Dom to cry even harder.
"Bloody hell, mate," Ron says as Dad tries to shush his granddaughter by bouncing her on his knee.
"You wanted to know what Ginny's plans are now that she's through playing Quidditch," Harry says sternly. "The least you could do is listen to her."
A stunned hush meets his remarks. It's a side of Harry few of them have seen, unaccustomed as they are to seeing him in his persona as head of the Auror Department. Ginny knows how hard he's worked to cultivate this persona. It's essential that he give off an air of authority and confidence the moment he enters a room, not least because he's the youngest person ever to lead the Aurors, and some of the witches and wizards under his command have years, even decades, more experience than he does.
It's a far cry from the Harry that Ginny knows best, the Harry who likes to sleep in until noon on Sundays and then putter about the house in a tatty dressing gown and scuffed-up slippers; the Harry who eats freshly-made treacle tart standing over the sink; the Harry who sometimes farts while they're making love; the Harry who, during Ginny's seventh year at Hogwarts, sold his godfather's ancestral home and used the proceeds to buy and restore this grange as her wedding gift. It's both terrific and terrible, and Ginny finds the difference incredibly sexy, especially the way his voice drops into lower registers as he booms out commands and his chest and shoulders seem to broaden and fill out. He even seems taller. She reaches for his hand and relaxes when he gives it a reassuring squeeze.
"All right, Ginny, you have our attention," Bill says. "What are your plans for the near future?"
"Erm... well," she begins with a shaky half-laugh, and her scalp begins to itch beneath the scrutiny of her assembled family and friends, "three months ago I got a letter from the editor of the sports page at the Daily Prophet asking if, er, I'd be interested in writing about Quidditch for them. And, after talking it over with Harry, and working out the details, I... I accepted." She straightens her shoulders. "You're looking at the Prophet's new Quidditch correspondent, beginning with next season's first match."
"But I thought you wanted to be able to spend more time at home?" Hermione says.
Ginny glances at Harry. "I did. And I do. I'll mostly be writing up matches at the Exmoor stadium and helping out with tournament coverage if they need me." A chorus of approving murmurs greets this news, in reply to which Ginny adds, "I'll only be gone for a few days here and there, maybe a week once or twice a year. I'm through with being on the road for months and missing Harry all the time. He's pants at writing letters, y'know, and neither of us fancy sleeping alone all that much." She grins as a flush creeps up the sides of Harry's neck. "Now that he's been promoted and can pretty much set his own hours, I hope to be able to spend a lot more time with him."
"Does this mean you two are finally going to settle down to the business of giving me a grandbaby?" Mum wants to know.
"Yeah, Ginny, when are you going to get yourself sprogged up?" Charlie asks cheekily, to which George replies, "They can start their own Quidditch team: the Flying Potters, and then Ginny can write them up for the Prophet!"
Several people with more delicate sensibilities chastise them, and Fleur wants to know just how many more grandchildren Mum's expecting, but Ginny's full attention is on Harry now. They'd talked about starting a family, but always in vague terms: we're too young; or, when the time is right; or, not right away; or, once things have settled down. Now, when the subject of children comes up, it'll be in earnest, and decisions will have to be made. Not right away, of course, but soon.
She wonders what their children will be like: Will they have Harry's green eyes and her red hair or her brown eyes and his black hair, will they love to fly, will they inherit her allergy to shellfish or Harry's nearsightedness? She looks deeply into Harry's eyes, wondering what he sees when he contemplates their future. She knows he's eager for children--his devotion to Teddy is proof enough of that--but he's guarded that desire as carefully as he shields all his most fervent hopes, ever-mindful of the boy who once lived in a cupboard under the stairs and had to content himself with his cousin's castoffs. Not that he'd suddenly change direction and hound her about getting pregnant, but the re-ordering of their priorities is something they'll have to work out together soon.
"OI! We don't mean for you to start right this minute," Ron exclaims, to much chortling and giggling, a "Ron!" from both Mum and Hermione, and a "My goodness" from Slughorn.
"Oh, I dunno, Ron, that table's looking rather tempting," Harry says, giving Ginny a meaningful look. "Bet you could learn a thing or two from watching."
A round of hoots, whistles, and catcalls follows as Harry pulls Ginny close and kisses her so thoroughly she's lifted off her feet. It's only when someone directs a spray of warm water at them that they break apart.
"Perhaps it's time for me to take my leave," McGonagall says primly, using her cane to get to her feet. "It's getting late, and I'd like to be home before dark."
Ginny and Harry exchange a quick look of alarm, then Harry says, "Professor, I'm sorry if we--"
"Oh, hush, Potter. I was a young wife myself once. I remember being full of vim and vigor at your age."
"You were married, Minerva?" Dad asks as George mouths "vim and vigor?" at Bill. "I had no idea."
"It was long before any of you were born. Ancient history." She comes up to Ginny. "Terribly sorry Holyhead lost, but you played an excellent match. If you ever decide to come out of retirement, I'd love to see you on one of Scotland's teams."
Ginny impulsively hugs McGonagall, and is gratified to feel her return the embrace. "Thanks so much for coming to watch me play, Professor. It means a lot to me."
McGonagall waves airily. "It was the least I could do, seeing as I am a member of your fan club." She looks fondly at Harry. "Take care, Potter. Keep in touch."
Harry's face glows with the respect and affection he feels for her. "I will, Professor. Do you need someone to accompany you home?"
"Nothing doing," she says with assurance. "I can manage on my own."
As she heads out of the house to the Apparation point just beyond the fence, Harry follows her to the door, watching her departure through the window. Meanwhile, several other people start making noises about heading home. "I'd love to stay, Ginny," Hannah says apologetically, "but Tom needs me back before the supper crowd comes in." She gives Ginny a hug and her assurances that she and Neville will come to dinner at the grange once he's returned, then leaves.
"Got ter start lookin' for yer replacement," Gwen explains as she once again crushes Ginny's hand in her grip. "Ya had a good run, Potter. You were a real asset to the team."
"Thanks, Gwen," Ginny says, trying to hide her grimace of pain. "It was an honor to play with you."
For an instant the Harpies' veteran Beater and Captain, a woman who has probably never in her life been described as pretty, looks almost demure as she blushes at the compliment, but then she opens her mouth in a broad grin, revealing the extensive bridgework necessary to replace all the teeth she's lost over the years (bridgework provided, as it happens, by Hermione's parents). She punches Ginny in the shoulder, causing her to stagger back a step. "Owl me if the boredom gets to ya and ya want another go," she says.
"I will," Ginny says, rubbing her bruised collarbone.
Oliver Wood and Professor Slughorn take their leave as well, as do most of Ginny's former teammates and friends from Hogwarts. Harry remains by the garden gate, seeing them all off, while Ginny stays inside. By the time he rejoins her, the sun is setting. The air having grown cool, Percy goes around and closes all the windows while Charlie lights a fire.
Like chesspieces in the hands of a master strategist or actors on a stage, the remaining guests rearrange themselves into family units around the fire. Charlie sits on the hearth apron, his legs stretched out before him, and entertains himself by playing with the flames. Audrey's in the rocking chair so she can nurse Molly while Percy rubs her feet. Bill's claimed a spot against the wall nearby with Fleur sitting between his legs, leaning up against his chest while he massages her gravid belly. Victoire is in turn curled up against her mum, thumb once again in her mouth, her eyelids growing heavier by the minute as she gazes into the fire. Dominique is on her grandmum's lap, listening attentively; Ginny, seated on one end of the sofa with Harry at the other, Teddy stretched out between them, hears snatches of some of her favorite childhood lullabies as Mum rocks back and forth, crooning to Dom. Ron, George, and Dad are standing by the window talking--Ginny thinks she heard something about an idea Ron had for the joke shop--while Angelina and Hermione are wrapping up leftover food and taking it into the kitchen.
"No - wait - let me--" Ginny protests, trying to get up.
"Stay put," Angelina orders as Hermione says, "It's all right, Ginny, we've got everything taken care of. Do you and Harry want the rest of this salmon pâté I made, or should I take it home with me?"
"Leave the pâté, Hermione, and join the rest of us," Harry says gently but firmly, ruffling Teddy's hair through his fingers. "You too, Angelina, before Ron and George devise a scheme to overthrow Parliament."
"Who told?" George exclaims in mock indignation.
"Never underestimate the number one Auror in the country," Percy says somewhat priggishly. Harry just shakes his head with a laugh.
The evening passes in this vein, languid, casual, contented. After a while Bill pushes himself up off the floor and helps Fleur to her feet, then collects a limp but still (if barely) awake Dominique from Mum. "Bedtime for sleepyheads," he says by way of explanation as Victoire presses her face against Fleur's hip with a whimper. "Is it okay if we use your bedroom fireplace to Floo home?"
"Sure, go right ahead," Ginny says, looking up at her brother, as handsome as ever despite the jagged scars on his face. "Thanks for today."
Fleur says, "'e iz so very proud of you, Ginny. We both are."
"Best of luck with the Prophet."
"Thanks, guys." Ginny blows a kiss to Victoire and waves at Dom, peeking over Bill's shoulder as they head upstairs.
Percy, having passed them on the stairs as he was bringing Molly back down from changing her nappy, stops next to Ginny and squats down so he's at eye level with her. "We should go too," he says. "I'm surprised Molly's lasted this long."
Ginny coos at her niece. "She's been delightful today. Was she awake for any of the match?"
His grin is almost sheepish. "She was out before they'd even finished announcing all the players." Harry chuckles quietly. "Listen, Ginny," he continues, reaching up to adjust his glasses, "I meant what I said about positions at the Ministry. Someone with your skills and, er --"
"Connections?" she offers.
"You'd be a huge asset. I bet the Department of Magical Games and Sports would love to have you. Just... at least think about, okay? There's more to the Ministry than measuring cauldron bottoms, you know."
Ginny smiles. "If things don't work out with the Prophet, I promise to consider working at the Ministry. How does that sound?"
"Good enough. See you around, Ginny."
"Bye, Ginny," Audrey says, bending down to give her a hug. "Feel free to visit if you need some company. I know how difficult it can be to adjust to having a lot of extra free time--not that Molly lets me sit around and twiddle my thumbs, of course."
"Of course not," Ginny says. "Thanks for organizing this, Audrey. It was a really wonderful surprise."
Her sister-in-law beams. "I'm so glad. I - well, I'd never been to a Quidditch match before Percy and I married, but I've come to enjoy following the various teams during the season. In fact, I have a system--"
Percy takes hold of her elbow. "Dear, we'd best get home. I think Molly might be working up to a tantrum." Recognizing his lie for what it is, Ginny suppresses her grin.
"Oh, yes, she's had such a long day. Goodbye, everyone!"
A chorus of farewells escorts them out the door; as soon as it closes behind them, George lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Thank Merlin he stopped her before she got going!"
"Got going about what?" Dad asks.
"Trust me, Mr. Weasley, you don't want to know," Angelina says.
"Audrey's ability to suck the joy out of something as simple as following Quidditch puts even Percy to shame," Ron says. At Mum's reproof he counters, "You've never heard her going on about her bloody charts, Mum! Pages and pages of charts about players and team rosters and standings and... blimey, she's practically written an entire book just on Ginny! It's no wonder she and Percy get on so well: they're just alike."
"I think it's sweet," Hermione says. "She just wants to fit in."
"It is kind of cute, if you think about it," Angelina says. "And you can't deny that Percy worships the ground Audrey walks on. He still has that besotted look on his face whenever he looks at her."
Everyone's attention is diverted by a gagging sound coming from the hearth. "All this talk about love and Percy making moony eyes at his wife is reminding me why I live with dragons," Charlie says, getting to his feet with a grunt. "They'd just as soon flame-broil you as bat their eyelashes at you."
"You're not fooling me," Dad says. "I've seen you with a new hatchling. You can go bonkers with the best of them."
"Thanks for ruining my tough-guy image, Pop." He makes a rude gesture in response to George's guffaw. "Sorry, Mum," he says to her sharp, "Charles!" To Ginny he says, "Great match today. Shame about Ballycastle's Seeker getting the Snitch, but you flew one hell of a game." Hands on his hips, he gives her a crooked smile. "Of all of us, you were the last I expected to see playing professional Quidditch."
"No wonder, since all of you did your best to keep me from flying. Maybe I should be thanking you for that."
"I'll take whatever credit you want to throw my way." He bends down to kiss Ginny on the forehead. "Don't let go of your broom," he says cryptically, but before Ginny can ask what he means he's already gone.
Mum and Dad and George and Angelina announce their departures in quick succession, and soon only five remain. Ron takes the armchair Mum recently vacated while Hermione perches herself on his lap, her arm around his shoulders, his around her waist. Once again Ginny is amused by their cautious unspoken negotiations over how much touching is appropriate in the company of others.
She thinks back on the first year of her marriage, when Harry could scarcely bring himself to kiss her on the cheek if anyone else was in the room, even if they hadn't seen each other for weeks and were both randier than goats. Eventually he loosened up, but it was another year before he felt comfortable enough to make love on the nights when Teddy slept over--though that was mostly because Teddy had once wandered into their bedroom at a critical moment to announce that he'd wet his bed. The man who'd flung himself off of Ginny so hurriedly that night he'd wrenched his knee and been left with a limp for weeks was a far cry from the man who a few hours ago had joked about having sex with her on the dining room table and then snogged her breathless before their friends and family.
"Is Teddy staying over tonight?" Ginny asks Harry.
He glances down as his godson, who is sound asleep, his nose changing shape as he dreams. "No," he says. "I reckon I ought to get him back to Andromeda."
He carefully maneuvers himself out from under Teddy's head, shaking his leg to restore sensation to it, then picks the boy up and drapes him over his shoulder. When he bends down to kiss Ginny, she murmurs, "Hurry back."
She feels his lips curve upward. "I will," is his promise.
Teddy mumbles indistinctly as Ginny tells him goodbye, squeezing his slumber-warmed hand, then Harry heads outside to Apparate with him to Andromeda's house, leaving Ginny with Ron and Hermione.
~
When Harry returns home, he finds Ginny alone, bent over the kitchen counter flipping through what looks like an issue of Witch Weekly, a mug of tea within reach. Grinning, he comes right up behind her so that the roundness of her bum rubs against him in just the right spot.
"Mm," she says, deliberately rocking back into him.
Harry lets out a responding moan as blood rushes below the equator. Grabbing hold of her waist with one hand, he leans over Ginny to reach for the mug with the other.
"It's herbal," she cautions.
He pauses to make a face, then lifts the mug to sniff at the contents. "It's not some lust-inhibiting potion, is it?"
Her laughter causes her bum to vibrate against his erection. She closes the magazine and rises up from the counter. "What would I go and do a mad thing like that for?" she asks, turning around so she's facing him and pulls him flush against her, then lifts her eyebrows. "Though if you have ideas about shagging until I can't walk straight..."
"What makes you think I have anything of the sort in mind?"
He grins wickedly at the feeling of her hands fumbling at his waist, trying to unfasten the button on his jeans. "Maybe because you're about to burst out of your pants?" She begins to lower his zipper, inch by excruciating inch.
Harry sets the mug back on the counter and clears his throat. "'S not what you think it is. Gwen gave me her Beater's bat for safekeeping."
Her whole body shakes in silent mirth. Unable to restrain himself any longer, Harry leans down to kiss her, wrapping his arms around her to hold her close.
When he comes up for air, Ginny's lips are red and swollen, her eyes are glassy, and her hair is as mussed as his. "Welcome home, Ginny," he rasps. "I hope you'll stick around a bit longer this time."
She sticks her tongue out at him. "Prat." She then picks up his right hand and runs the tip of her finger around the edge of his palm. "I see you've picked up a few new callouses since the last time we were together."
He waggles his eyebrows at her. "A man has to do what a man has to do." Rocking his pelvis forward, he says, "About what you said earlier -- about shagging until you can't walk?" His voice goes up at the end.
"Bloody hell, Harry, could you be any more of a randy roger?"
It's not quite the response he's expecting, and it takes him a moment to come up with a reply. "Erm, I suppose I could, but I reckon it would be right painful if the way I feel now is any indication." At the look on her face he whines, "C'mon, Ginny, what was all that you were saying to Hannah earlier about reunion sex?"
"Y'know," she says after staring at him as if he's just sprouted a third eye, "I'm dead knackered. I think I'm just going to turn in. Get some sleep."
The shock is enough to make him let go of her and take a step back. "Oh. Okay. If that's what you want, then... er... okay."
She grabs his wrist and tugs him back. "Oh, Harry," she says, shaking her head. "Why must you always be so easy to take the mickey out of?" The look of apology on her face is somewhat undermined by her giggle. Sucking her lower lip between her teeth and giving him a mischievous look, she then asks, "You know what I really want?"
"What?" His tone is sharpened by the recent injury to his pride, and she picks up on it.
"I want --" She then stands on her toes and whispers something so deliciously lewd in his ear Harry nearly swallows his tongue. Any previous insults and injuries have been immediately forgotten, as he has only one thing on his mind right now.
"Reckon you're up for it?" Ginny rests her palm over the revived bulge in his trousers. All Harry can do is close his eyes and groan, practically thrusting into the warm pressure of her hand. "Mm, feels like you are. Well, c'mon then, before you lose all control." She then takes him by the hand and leads him upstairs.
~
The first time, it's quick and dirty and messy. They don't waste time with the niceties, with caresses or sweet words or staring lovingly into each other's eyes; their attention is on the immediate goal of relief, of releasing the pent-up longing and frustration that built up during their prolonged enforced abstinence while Ginny was on the road playing for the Harpies. After nearly five years of marriage, they are familiar enough with each other to know the quickest, surest road to satisfaction, though their urgency results in more than the usual fumbling.
As clothes are rapidly shed, the world reduces itself to sound: the thump of a shoe hitting a wall, an oath, the creak of bedsprings. Then a series of terse instructions: "Wait - No - Oof, sorry - Bugger! - Hold on, you have - No, that's not - Oh - Yes - Oh, oh - Yes, right there - Oh..." Then heavy breathing punctuated by grunts, the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings that rapidly increases in tempo, then Harry's whoop followed by a long, drawn-out sigh and "Thank Merlin" from Ginny. There is laughter at this, of amusement and affection and agreement, even as they are already reaching for each other again.
The second time, they're more playful and relaxed, the edge having been taken off the urgency of their need. Ginny convinces Harry to try the suggestion she'd made earlier. It's not as successful as they were hoping for, so they revert to more familiar, conventional methods, with an agreement to try again another time.
They end with Harry sitting up against the headboard, Ginny straddling his thighs. It's a position that doesn't let him go as deeply as he'd like, but she likes it because she can control the speed and depth of his thrusts, and they both appreciate the intimacy it offers. He cups her bum or holds her waist as she rises and falls in carefully measured time, holding on to his shoulders for support, delaying his climax until she is near her own.
They often talk when they're like this: praise and encouragement, of course, and the occasional mild correction, but genuine conversations as well. Harry's found it to be an effective delaying tactic, though sometimes he has to talk through clenched teeth, fisting at the sheets to control the urge to thrust. It mystifies him how Ginny can natter on about the most inconsequential matters while she's riding him like this. He wonders sometimes what goes through her mind when they're having sex; she's never given him any reason to believe she's not enjoying herself, and yet she has the presence of mind to go on about the latest broom prototype from Nimbus or ask him if he remembers there's a reception at the Ministry that weekend even while he's sheathed inside her, his mind reeling with pleasure. Tonight, though, she's quiet, although Harry can sense there's something on her mind.
"Harry," Ginny finally says, coming to a rest. "About what Mum said earlier..."
He nearly chokes. "You want to talk about your mum now?"
"Well..." She seems suddenly unsure of herself, something Harry doesn't often see from her. "It's sort of related to what we're doing."
"It is?"
"Yeah." She hesitates before saying, "Y'know, about - about starting a family."
"Oh." It's not what he was expecting, and he's not sure how to react. He reaches up to rest his hand against her cheek, trying to reassure her with his touch. "D'you really want to talk about it now?"
She leans into his hand and brings her hands together behind his neck. They're so close that her breasts brush against his chest. "Maybe now's not really the best time, but we probably ought to soon. Since I'm retired from playing, well..." She gives a little shrug.
"You'll be working for the Prophet, though. It's not as though you won't have anything to do." He doesn't say what he's thinking, that having a baby is a terrible solution for boredom.
"Yeah, but it won't be the same. It's one thing to straddle a broom when you're as big as Fleur is, and another to write about other people doing it."
Harry sees now what she's getting at, and feels a sudden thrill of joy and excitement at the realization that she's seriously considering the idea of starting a family with him. As if of their own accord his hips push upwards; a reciprocal movement from Ginny is his reward. Biting back a gasp, he grips at her waist and thrusts again. "You'll also be around more."
"Right." She leans forward and kisses him, her tongue probing his mouth. "Do you want children, Harry?" she asks a few minutes later.
He is nearly past the point of lucidity, but forces himself back to earth enough to respond, "It's an awful big responsibility to take on."
"Yeah, it is, but that's always going to be true, isn't it?"
"I reckon so."
"So... do you?"
Though it's not a subject that has occupied his mind for the past couple of hours, there are few things Harry has yearned for more than to have children with Ginny. He tells her this in the best way he knows how. He's never possessed the gift of eloquence, but he has been blessed with the love of a woman who understands him perfectly, who looks at him with tears glistening in her eyes as he struggles to find the words that express his heart's desire. When he finds himself unable to go on, she takes his face between her hands and leans forward, murmuring, "I love you, Harry," against his lips just before kissing him.
The rest is like second nature. He clutches her to him when he comes, gasping as if in pain, white-hot light searing his tightly-shut eyes, and she whispers something in his ear that makes him come even harder. Then, as his hips give a few last shuddering jerks she comes as well, her fingers digging into his shoulders as her breath escapes in a series of short, sharp cries. They cling to each other for a long time afterwards, until the last of the aftershocks have faded away and the sweat has dried on their bodies. Then, as his muscles gradually loosen their grip, Harry brings Ginny to lie down beside him and gives himself up to languor.
Yet, despite his exhaustion, Harry is unable to sleep. While Ginny snores softly beside him, the warmth of her body stretched out next to his, her hair fanned out across his chest, he watches the sun rise through the window beside their bed. Dark figures on the moorland become gradually clearer, taking the shape of ponies grazing amongst the heather, the ever-watchful Porlock guarding them from danger. The quacking of ducks feeding around the edges of the pond disturb the stillness of early morning, and in the distance an owl returning home from the night's hunt hoots.
Just before sleep overtakes him, it occurs to Harry that he won't have to prepare himself for Ginny's departure from Holyhead Island come the end of August, as he has done for the past several years. She's home now: home, with him, where she belongs, to stay.
Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought. :-)
Rating: R/NC-17
Summary: A simple descriptive work in poetry or prose that deals with rustic life or pastoral scenes or suggests a mood of peace and contentment; a romantic interlude.
Notes: Written for, and dedicated to, the wonderful, sweet, and incredibly talented reallycorking, in honor of her birthday. My thanks to r_becca for rising to the challenge of beta-reading this behemoth.
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.
Deep within Exmoor National Park, well off the beaten paths preferred by the tourists that flock there every summer, lie the ruins of an old grange, abandoned long ago when its inhabitants (their forebears having had to fend for themselves after the Cistercian abbey the grange had originally belonged to dissolved in the sixteenth century) gave up the livelihood of animal husbandry that had sustained them for generations and left to seek their fortunes in the factories up north. To those hardy Muggles who do happen by, it is a picturesque sight, the foundations of medieval outbuildings marked only by unnaturally-arranged piles of stones and irregular growing patterns in the vegetation clustered around the farmhouse's surviving chimney like chicks around a watchful hen. A herd of semi-wild ponies, occasionally joined at dawn or dusk by red deer, grazes the surrounding moorland. In August, when the native heather is in bloom, the moorland turns livid with color, shades of purple and mauve clamoring for attention from the bees that hum amongst the vegetation.
On the whole, it is a tranquil scene, and many a backpacker has been inspired to strike a tent and camp for the night, surrounded by the sound of equine teeth cropping the heather below and the silent glitter of the stars above. Without fail, though, before the first tent peg breaks ground, the intruder is overcome by an irrational compulsion to seek the comforts of civilization, with hot-water-filled baths and flush toilets and beds with springy mattresses and well-laundered duvets and heavy, hearty pub food. Many an inn in the neighboring villages--the nearest almost ten kilometers away--has done good business thanks to the strange fits suffered by visitors to what has come to be known as "No Man's Moor," and many a pint has been consumed in sharing tales about the strange hallucinations experienced there.
What these poor Muggles do not know, what they cannot imagine, is that they have encountered a very powerful enchantment cast several years before by a most unremarkable-looking young man (unremarkable save for a rather odd lightning bolt-shaped scar across his forehead) as part of a wedding present to his bride-to-be. Were they able to break through the enchantment, they would see the grange fully restored, with smoke curling from both farmhouse chimneys on cold mornings; one of the outbuildings housing a battered old motorbike and another containing a collection of brooms; a small duck-pond (ducks included); and a sturdy fence around everything to keep the ponies and deer from trampling the garden.
Were these interlopers granted the ability to view the grange's second life as though it were a cinema, they might observe the team of builders hired to reconstruct it as it had once been (with modern conveniences, of course); or the out-of-thin-air appearance one brilliant August day of the young man and his bride, both in wedding apparel, and the way the young man swept her off her feet with a kiss and carried her over the threshold into their new home; or the Porlock keeping a watchful eye over the ponies; or gnomes scampering around the garden, fleeing the chubby, sticky clutches of a small boy with turquoise hair. Rather than the bewilderment that compels them to leave this place and seek out the company of others, they would feel the warm glow of contentment that suffuses the grange, rooted in and nurtured by the mutual love and affection of its present master and mistress. The grange is their home, however, not a way station for weary backpackers or a spectacle for tourists to gawk at, and so the young man regularly checks the integrity of the protective enchantments he put up when he bought the place, ensuring this idyll he has created for himself and his wife--and someday, he hopes, their children--will remain unmolested.
~
On a Saturday afternoon near the end of May, nearly six years after the conclusive end to Lord Voldemort's reign of terror, the grange's tranquility is broken by a succession of pops. Three women appear just outside the fence, their arms laden with shopping bags and bakeware and other items. One of them, the apparent leader of the group, is clearly much older than her companions, her once-red hair scarcely visible through the gray that has overtaken it. Her energy and enthusiasm remains indefatigable, however, and she bustles through the garden gate and up to the house to let herself in, calling over her shoulder, "Hermione, Audrey, hurry up! We've got loads to do before the others arrive." The two younger women, accustomed to being ordered around in this fashion, do not even exchange a commiserative look as they follow her inside.
Soon the sounds of a kitchen overrun with too many cooks drifts through the open window. At one point a puff of greenish smoke belches forth from the chimney at the north end, and a well-trained ear can detect new voices, at least one of them French-accented and another belonging to a small child. Then a radio crackles to life and the broadcast of some sort of athletic event drowns out all conversation. It is obvious, however, that the women are listening, as they can frequently be heard exhorting this or that player, "Ginny" in particular, or the team ("C'mon, Harpies" is a common refrain) as a whole.
Around mid-afternoon the roar of the spectators can be heard over the static and the sportscaster announces that "Sigurdsson has caught the Snitch! Ballycastle wins, 250 to 210" to a chorus of jeers from within the house. From within the house a voice says, "Oh, what a shame for Ginny," while another says, "I expect people to start arriving any minute now."
Sure enough, only a few moments pass before more pops cause the Porlock to raise its head and sniff the air suspiciously as a crowd of people materialize from nowhere just beyond the fence. This time there are men as well as women, of all ages. Many of the men have distinctively red hair. One of the women is dark-skinned, with braids that reach halfway down her back. A younger man with horn-rimmed glasses carries a sleeping baby in his arms. Many of them are wearing shirts or jumpers or hats or carrying banners in gold-accented dark green, emblazoned with a large gold "H." Talking animatedly amongst themselves--there must be at least a dozen different conversations taking place simultaneously--they all head inside the house, where the chimney continues to belch green smoke intermittently.
Two more pops reveal a slim, erect woman in tartan robes and square spectacles, her dark hair betraying only a hint of gray, and a younger, shorter, powerfully-built red-haired man with singe marks decorating his moderately shabby clothing. He offers his arm to his companion and leads her to the front door, which is thrown open by a bald man with an enormous belly straining to break free of his waistcoat and a bushy, walrus-like moustache, a piece of crystallized pineapple in his other hand. "Minerva!" he cries. "Come in, come in. You too, Weasley," he continues, stepping aside so they can get by. "Oh, I was just thinking of my old friend Raskolnikov--you know her, don't you?--" The door closes before Weasley's knowledge of Raskolnikov can be affirmed or denied. All of the windows have been thrown open, however, and it is audibly clear that this is a gathering of dear friends--and family, if the predominance of red hair is any indication. The atmosphere of good spirits and fellowship is unmistakable.
About twenty minutes later two more pops momentarily disturb the Porlock, but it immediately recognizes the newcomers and returns to grazing. It is the young man of before, the master of this little patch of paradise. He holds the hand of a young, turquoise-haired boy and beside him is his lovely bride. Two of the ponies, remembering the boy's fondness for feeding them pumpkin pasties from the other side of the fence, cease grazing and approach cautiously, their heads jerking upward in the hopes of detecting a whiff of a tasty treat, their velvet-soft muzzles querying.
The young woman, dressed, like her husband, in casual attire, carries a long, slim case that is bell-shaped at one end, like something a trombone player might use to carry his instrument, and in the other hand she holds a more conventional suitcase. As snatches of conversation emanating from inside her house reach her ears, she turns with a raised eyebrow to her husband. "Harry, what's going on?"
He grins, then reaches out with his free hand to take her around the waist and bring her in for a kiss. When they break apart he says, "Welcome home, Ginny."
~
Ginny's amazed their house holds so many people, then reckons someone probably cast a few charms to accommodate all the extra guests; she wonders what those Transfigured chairs in her sitting room will turn back into once the spells are lifted. The dining room table is holding up remarkably well, considering how laden it is with food--Mum's and Audrey's doing, no doubt. While Harry takes her things upstairs to their bedroom, giving her a kiss on the cheek as he goes, Ginny tries to take it all in, especially the large banner tacked above her fireplace that reads, "HAPPY RETIREMENT #24."
"Wow," she says, her hand pressed against her cheek. "Wow."
"Surprise!" someone cries, and Ginny's not at all surprised that it's her mum, elbowing her way through the crowd to embrace her. "Welcome home, Ginny dear," she says, and her face is glowing with pride. "You played such a good match today."
This seems to open the floodgates, and Ginny finds herself beset on all sides by well-wishers (and those sympathizing with the Harpies' disappointing loss), many of them relatives by blood or marriage, some familiar faces from Hogwarts, a few teammates past and present. It's almost too much for her to bear all at once, and she's so grateful to feel the reassuring pressure of Harry's hand at her back. She turns to him in wonder. "Is all this for me?"
She loves how expressive his face is, how pride and devotion are there for all the world to see. "It was Audrey's idea at first, and she and your mum and Hermione and Fleur did all the planning, but yeah, we wanted to celebrate the end of your Quidditch-playing career."
"The way everyone's carrying on, you'd think I'd played fifty years, instead of five."
"We'll gladly take ya back, if ya decide ya want ter play fer fifty years," says a deep voice, and Ginny turns to see Gwenog Jones, the Harpies' Captain and Beater, holding out her hand. "Ya gots lots o' good years left in ya, Potter."
"Thanks, Gwen," Ginny says, trying not to wince as the bones in her hand are crushed by Jones' mammoth grip. "I'm honored, really, but it's time for me to move on."
"Well, at least yer retirin', and not signin' on wi' some other team. Ain't that right?" The clap she lands on Harry's shoulder causes him to slop butterbeer all over himself.
"Er - ah - yeah, right, Gwen," he says, handing Ginny the bottle while he tries to blot his shirt dry. "Ginny's a Harpy through and through." His cheeks turn pink as it hits him how this sounds, but Jones is already gone, dragged away by Oliver Wood, who wants to discuss Holyhead's last match with Puddlemere. Harry clears his throat and grins sheepishly at Ginny. "You know what I mean."
She takes a swig of butterbeer before saying, "I do," then wraps her arms around his waist. As she's about to kiss him, however, she glances over his shoulder just in time to see her four-year-old niece push her face forward, her eyes shut and her lips pursed, waiting for a kiss from Harry's six-year-old godson. Judging from the look on the boy's face, he has no intention of fulfilling her wish. Unable to help herself, Ginny giggles.
Harry's eyes snap open. "What?"
Ginny laughs again. "Go rescue Teddy from Victoire before she molests him."
His eyes roll in understanding. "Is she trying to kiss him again?"
"Give it an hour or two. Right now she's still under the delusion he's going to kiss her."
"Right." He detaches himself from her embrace to separate the young lovers.
Ginny takes a moment to look around her. Wherever she looks, people are gathered in twos and threes and fours. All of them look content, secure of their place in this new world--a world that Harry, whom she loves as she cannot imagine loving anyone else, has devoted years to creating. Even when she is far from home, either at the Harpies' training ground on Holyhead Island, or traveling with the team, she knows that Harry wants nothing more than to ensure that someone like Voldemort can never again hold their world hostage. A gathering like this is possible because of Harry's dedication to that task, yet what matters most to her now is that he took time away from his life's work to gather their friends and family here to celebrate her accomplishments. It's a realization that makes her feel giddy with the awesomeness of it.
In one corner Fleur and Audrey are deep in discussion, probably about parenting techniques. Audrey has Molly, still looking somewhat grumpy from her aborted nap, balanced on her hip, while Fleur is trying to make room for a squirming Dominique around her burgeoning abdomen. Ginny smiles as Bill comes to the rescue, bringing a chair for his wife and then scooping Dom up to "fly" above everyone's heads across the room until she lands with a shriek of delight in her grandfather's lap. George and Angelina, the stone on her engagement ring flashing in the sunlight that streams in through a nearby window, are talking to Professor McGonagall and Percy, who can't seem to stop looking anxiously over his shoulder at his wife and daughter. George and Angelina seem happy together, though Ginny knows it's been a rocky road for both of them; hopefully all lingering doubts about their relationship can be erased in time for their wedding this December.
Professor Slughorn seems to have cornered Hermione in the kitchen while Ron hovers nearby with a loaded plate, obviously torn between not wanting to abandon her and worrying that Slughorn will ask him a question the instant his mouth is full. Ginny can't help giggling at the exasperated glower on her brother's face as he wolfs down his sandwich, nor at Hermione's desperate expression as she silently pleads with him to save her. They've only been married a couple of months and it's obvious to Ginny, who married Harry shortly after completing her seventh year at Hogwarts, that they're still going through adjustment pains. Within a year, she reckons, they'll have their looks and signals down to a science. For now, though, it appears that Mum has taken up the role of Hermione's savior by distracting Slughorn with a question about antidotes for Billywig stings, and she and Ron beat a hasty retreat.
Ginny's about to follow them when she spots an unexpected guest setting out butterbeer bottles on the counter. Sidling up to the guest she murmurs, "You can take the girl out of the pub, but you can't take the pub out of the girl, can you?"
Hannah Abbott brushes her hair out of her eyes and gives Ginny a shy but friendly smile. "I think it's ingrained in me," she admits. "Tom gives me the afternoon off, and I end up doing the same thing I do six days a week at the Leaky Cauldron."
Ginny takes one of the bottles from the counter, opens it, and hands it to Hannah. "As lady of the house, I order you to quit working and enjoy yourself."
"Aye, ma'am." Hannah gives her a jaunty salute. "Did you get the flowers Neville sent?"
"I did! I'll be sure to thank him myself, but do tell him the next time you see him I thought they were gorgeous."
She blushes. "Just a little over a month and he'll be back in London."
Ginny can sympathize with the pain of separation; she's spent far more time apart from Harry that she cares to think about. Now that she's retired from the team, she's looking forward to spending more time with him and making the most of married life. "I reckon it's been rough, this being his first year teaching at Hogwarts."
"It has," Hannah says, taking a sip of butterbeer before continuing, "but he promises we'll make up for lost time this summer." She blushes again.
"Nothing beats reunion sex," Ginny says with a wink. "Trust me on this."
"Reunion sex?" a voice says, and Ginny feels a pair of arms come around her from behind. "Are you scandalizing Hannah?"
She leans back against Harry's chest with a sigh. "Not at all. Just telling her what she has to look forward to when Neville comes home at the end of term." His chuckle seems to vibrate through her entire body and she shivers in anticipation of their own, private, reunion after everyone has gone. "Were you able to detach Victoire from Teddy?"
"Charlie's entertaining them with stories from Romania." He points, and she sees her brother seated on the stairs, one child on each knee as he conjures up an image of a Welsh Green. Victoire, who is facing Ginny, is staring at Charlie with huge blue eyes, her thumb firmly planted in her mouth, while streaks of bright green appear in Teddy's hair, evidence of how caught up he is in Charlie's tale.
At the sound of a rustle, Ginny looks down and sees that Harry's holding a piece of paper. She plucks it from his hand. "What's this?" she asks, turning around in his arms to face him.
"Owl from Luna. Came this morning right before I left. She sends her regrets that she couldn't come, but she's busy--"
"--hunting Crumple-Horned Snorkacks," Ginny says, completing the sentence. "Some things never change."
The tip of Harry's tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he considers this. "D'you reckon anyone would notice even if they did?" He squeezes Ginny, lifting her up on her toes, and leans in for a kiss.
"Oi! Ginny!"
Thwarted once again, she pulls away to see that everyone's eyes are on her. Even though she's been watched by thousands of Quidditch fans, lost count of the number of game booklets and posters and brooms and hoodies--and on one memorable occasion, a young man's bare arse--she's autographed, and had her photograph appear in the Daily Prophet at least as many times as Harry has done, being at the center of attention in this small gathering makes her feel self-conscious. "What d'you want?"
"Some of us were wondering what you plan on doing now that you've retired from Quidditch," Angelina says.
"I was wonderin' that m'self," Gwenog agrees.
Oliver snorts. "That's 'cause you can't imagine a life outside Quidditch, Gwen."
"You bet yer Bludgers I can't," she growls.
"If you're looking for a job, there are always plenty of openings at the Ministry," Percy suggests earnestly. "Audrey has connections in Personnel, she'd be happy to find a position that maximizes your skills."
"He's right," Hermione pipes up, even as George launches a wadded-up napkin at Percy's head that knocks his glasses askew. "We could use you in Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, as a matter of fact."
"I think you should send an owl to Madam Hooch," McGonagall interjects. "She's been wanting to retire to the Azores for years. This would be the ideal opportunity for both of you!"
And before Ginny knows it, everyone is talking to and at and over each other, each of them offering their opinion to anyone who's listening (and even those who aren't) on what they think Ginny's next career choice should be. The din is deafening, if the wails of protest coming from Dominique are any indication. Ginny looks at Harry, who without a word sets off a loud bang with his wand that causes Mum to drop the plate she's holding, Teddy to clap his hands over his ears (a move mimicked by Victoire), and Dom to cry even harder.
"Bloody hell, mate," Ron says as Dad tries to shush his granddaughter by bouncing her on his knee.
"You wanted to know what Ginny's plans are now that she's through playing Quidditch," Harry says sternly. "The least you could do is listen to her."
A stunned hush meets his remarks. It's a side of Harry few of them have seen, unaccustomed as they are to seeing him in his persona as head of the Auror Department. Ginny knows how hard he's worked to cultivate this persona. It's essential that he give off an air of authority and confidence the moment he enters a room, not least because he's the youngest person ever to lead the Aurors, and some of the witches and wizards under his command have years, even decades, more experience than he does.
It's a far cry from the Harry that Ginny knows best, the Harry who likes to sleep in until noon on Sundays and then putter about the house in a tatty dressing gown and scuffed-up slippers; the Harry who eats freshly-made treacle tart standing over the sink; the Harry who sometimes farts while they're making love; the Harry who, during Ginny's seventh year at Hogwarts, sold his godfather's ancestral home and used the proceeds to buy and restore this grange as her wedding gift. It's both terrific and terrible, and Ginny finds the difference incredibly sexy, especially the way his voice drops into lower registers as he booms out commands and his chest and shoulders seem to broaden and fill out. He even seems taller. She reaches for his hand and relaxes when he gives it a reassuring squeeze.
"All right, Ginny, you have our attention," Bill says. "What are your plans for the near future?"
"Erm... well," she begins with a shaky half-laugh, and her scalp begins to itch beneath the scrutiny of her assembled family and friends, "three months ago I got a letter from the editor of the sports page at the Daily Prophet asking if, er, I'd be interested in writing about Quidditch for them. And, after talking it over with Harry, and working out the details, I... I accepted." She straightens her shoulders. "You're looking at the Prophet's new Quidditch correspondent, beginning with next season's first match."
"But I thought you wanted to be able to spend more time at home?" Hermione says.
Ginny glances at Harry. "I did. And I do. I'll mostly be writing up matches at the Exmoor stadium and helping out with tournament coverage if they need me." A chorus of approving murmurs greets this news, in reply to which Ginny adds, "I'll only be gone for a few days here and there, maybe a week once or twice a year. I'm through with being on the road for months and missing Harry all the time. He's pants at writing letters, y'know, and neither of us fancy sleeping alone all that much." She grins as a flush creeps up the sides of Harry's neck. "Now that he's been promoted and can pretty much set his own hours, I hope to be able to spend a lot more time with him."
"Does this mean you two are finally going to settle down to the business of giving me a grandbaby?" Mum wants to know.
"Yeah, Ginny, when are you going to get yourself sprogged up?" Charlie asks cheekily, to which George replies, "They can start their own Quidditch team: the Flying Potters, and then Ginny can write them up for the Prophet!"
Several people with more delicate sensibilities chastise them, and Fleur wants to know just how many more grandchildren Mum's expecting, but Ginny's full attention is on Harry now. They'd talked about starting a family, but always in vague terms: we're too young; or, when the time is right; or, not right away; or, once things have settled down. Now, when the subject of children comes up, it'll be in earnest, and decisions will have to be made. Not right away, of course, but soon.
She wonders what their children will be like: Will they have Harry's green eyes and her red hair or her brown eyes and his black hair, will they love to fly, will they inherit her allergy to shellfish or Harry's nearsightedness? She looks deeply into Harry's eyes, wondering what he sees when he contemplates their future. She knows he's eager for children--his devotion to Teddy is proof enough of that--but he's guarded that desire as carefully as he shields all his most fervent hopes, ever-mindful of the boy who once lived in a cupboard under the stairs and had to content himself with his cousin's castoffs. Not that he'd suddenly change direction and hound her about getting pregnant, but the re-ordering of their priorities is something they'll have to work out together soon.
"OI! We don't mean for you to start right this minute," Ron exclaims, to much chortling and giggling, a "Ron!" from both Mum and Hermione, and a "My goodness" from Slughorn.
"Oh, I dunno, Ron, that table's looking rather tempting," Harry says, giving Ginny a meaningful look. "Bet you could learn a thing or two from watching."
A round of hoots, whistles, and catcalls follows as Harry pulls Ginny close and kisses her so thoroughly she's lifted off her feet. It's only when someone directs a spray of warm water at them that they break apart.
"Perhaps it's time for me to take my leave," McGonagall says primly, using her cane to get to her feet. "It's getting late, and I'd like to be home before dark."
Ginny and Harry exchange a quick look of alarm, then Harry says, "Professor, I'm sorry if we--"
"Oh, hush, Potter. I was a young wife myself once. I remember being full of vim and vigor at your age."
"You were married, Minerva?" Dad asks as George mouths "vim and vigor?" at Bill. "I had no idea."
"It was long before any of you were born. Ancient history." She comes up to Ginny. "Terribly sorry Holyhead lost, but you played an excellent match. If you ever decide to come out of retirement, I'd love to see you on one of Scotland's teams."
Ginny impulsively hugs McGonagall, and is gratified to feel her return the embrace. "Thanks so much for coming to watch me play, Professor. It means a lot to me."
McGonagall waves airily. "It was the least I could do, seeing as I am a member of your fan club." She looks fondly at Harry. "Take care, Potter. Keep in touch."
Harry's face glows with the respect and affection he feels for her. "I will, Professor. Do you need someone to accompany you home?"
"Nothing doing," she says with assurance. "I can manage on my own."
As she heads out of the house to the Apparation point just beyond the fence, Harry follows her to the door, watching her departure through the window. Meanwhile, several other people start making noises about heading home. "I'd love to stay, Ginny," Hannah says apologetically, "but Tom needs me back before the supper crowd comes in." She gives Ginny a hug and her assurances that she and Neville will come to dinner at the grange once he's returned, then leaves.
"Got ter start lookin' for yer replacement," Gwen explains as she once again crushes Ginny's hand in her grip. "Ya had a good run, Potter. You were a real asset to the team."
"Thanks, Gwen," Ginny says, trying to hide her grimace of pain. "It was an honor to play with you."
For an instant the Harpies' veteran Beater and Captain, a woman who has probably never in her life been described as pretty, looks almost demure as she blushes at the compliment, but then she opens her mouth in a broad grin, revealing the extensive bridgework necessary to replace all the teeth she's lost over the years (bridgework provided, as it happens, by Hermione's parents). She punches Ginny in the shoulder, causing her to stagger back a step. "Owl me if the boredom gets to ya and ya want another go," she says.
"I will," Ginny says, rubbing her bruised collarbone.
Oliver Wood and Professor Slughorn take their leave as well, as do most of Ginny's former teammates and friends from Hogwarts. Harry remains by the garden gate, seeing them all off, while Ginny stays inside. By the time he rejoins her, the sun is setting. The air having grown cool, Percy goes around and closes all the windows while Charlie lights a fire.
Like chesspieces in the hands of a master strategist or actors on a stage, the remaining guests rearrange themselves into family units around the fire. Charlie sits on the hearth apron, his legs stretched out before him, and entertains himself by playing with the flames. Audrey's in the rocking chair so she can nurse Molly while Percy rubs her feet. Bill's claimed a spot against the wall nearby with Fleur sitting between his legs, leaning up against his chest while he massages her gravid belly. Victoire is in turn curled up against her mum, thumb once again in her mouth, her eyelids growing heavier by the minute as she gazes into the fire. Dominique is on her grandmum's lap, listening attentively; Ginny, seated on one end of the sofa with Harry at the other, Teddy stretched out between them, hears snatches of some of her favorite childhood lullabies as Mum rocks back and forth, crooning to Dom. Ron, George, and Dad are standing by the window talking--Ginny thinks she heard something about an idea Ron had for the joke shop--while Angelina and Hermione are wrapping up leftover food and taking it into the kitchen.
"No - wait - let me--" Ginny protests, trying to get up.
"Stay put," Angelina orders as Hermione says, "It's all right, Ginny, we've got everything taken care of. Do you and Harry want the rest of this salmon pâté I made, or should I take it home with me?"
"Leave the pâté, Hermione, and join the rest of us," Harry says gently but firmly, ruffling Teddy's hair through his fingers. "You too, Angelina, before Ron and George devise a scheme to overthrow Parliament."
"Who told?" George exclaims in mock indignation.
"Never underestimate the number one Auror in the country," Percy says somewhat priggishly. Harry just shakes his head with a laugh.
The evening passes in this vein, languid, casual, contented. After a while Bill pushes himself up off the floor and helps Fleur to her feet, then collects a limp but still (if barely) awake Dominique from Mum. "Bedtime for sleepyheads," he says by way of explanation as Victoire presses her face against Fleur's hip with a whimper. "Is it okay if we use your bedroom fireplace to Floo home?"
"Sure, go right ahead," Ginny says, looking up at her brother, as handsome as ever despite the jagged scars on his face. "Thanks for today."
Fleur says, "'e iz so very proud of you, Ginny. We both are."
"Best of luck with the Prophet."
"Thanks, guys." Ginny blows a kiss to Victoire and waves at Dom, peeking over Bill's shoulder as they head upstairs.
Percy, having passed them on the stairs as he was bringing Molly back down from changing her nappy, stops next to Ginny and squats down so he's at eye level with her. "We should go too," he says. "I'm surprised Molly's lasted this long."
Ginny coos at her niece. "She's been delightful today. Was she awake for any of the match?"
His grin is almost sheepish. "She was out before they'd even finished announcing all the players." Harry chuckles quietly. "Listen, Ginny," he continues, reaching up to adjust his glasses, "I meant what I said about positions at the Ministry. Someone with your skills and, er --"
"Connections?" she offers.
"You'd be a huge asset. I bet the Department of Magical Games and Sports would love to have you. Just... at least think about, okay? There's more to the Ministry than measuring cauldron bottoms, you know."
Ginny smiles. "If things don't work out with the Prophet, I promise to consider working at the Ministry. How does that sound?"
"Good enough. See you around, Ginny."
"Bye, Ginny," Audrey says, bending down to give her a hug. "Feel free to visit if you need some company. I know how difficult it can be to adjust to having a lot of extra free time--not that Molly lets me sit around and twiddle my thumbs, of course."
"Of course not," Ginny says. "Thanks for organizing this, Audrey. It was a really wonderful surprise."
Her sister-in-law beams. "I'm so glad. I - well, I'd never been to a Quidditch match before Percy and I married, but I've come to enjoy following the various teams during the season. In fact, I have a system--"
Percy takes hold of her elbow. "Dear, we'd best get home. I think Molly might be working up to a tantrum." Recognizing his lie for what it is, Ginny suppresses her grin.
"Oh, yes, she's had such a long day. Goodbye, everyone!"
A chorus of farewells escorts them out the door; as soon as it closes behind them, George lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Thank Merlin he stopped her before she got going!"
"Got going about what?" Dad asks.
"Trust me, Mr. Weasley, you don't want to know," Angelina says.
"Audrey's ability to suck the joy out of something as simple as following Quidditch puts even Percy to shame," Ron says. At Mum's reproof he counters, "You've never heard her going on about her bloody charts, Mum! Pages and pages of charts about players and team rosters and standings and... blimey, she's practically written an entire book just on Ginny! It's no wonder she and Percy get on so well: they're just alike."
"I think it's sweet," Hermione says. "She just wants to fit in."
"It is kind of cute, if you think about it," Angelina says. "And you can't deny that Percy worships the ground Audrey walks on. He still has that besotted look on his face whenever he looks at her."
Everyone's attention is diverted by a gagging sound coming from the hearth. "All this talk about love and Percy making moony eyes at his wife is reminding me why I live with dragons," Charlie says, getting to his feet with a grunt. "They'd just as soon flame-broil you as bat their eyelashes at you."
"You're not fooling me," Dad says. "I've seen you with a new hatchling. You can go bonkers with the best of them."
"Thanks for ruining my tough-guy image, Pop." He makes a rude gesture in response to George's guffaw. "Sorry, Mum," he says to her sharp, "Charles!" To Ginny he says, "Great match today. Shame about Ballycastle's Seeker getting the Snitch, but you flew one hell of a game." Hands on his hips, he gives her a crooked smile. "Of all of us, you were the last I expected to see playing professional Quidditch."
"No wonder, since all of you did your best to keep me from flying. Maybe I should be thanking you for that."
"I'll take whatever credit you want to throw my way." He bends down to kiss Ginny on the forehead. "Don't let go of your broom," he says cryptically, but before Ginny can ask what he means he's already gone.
Mum and Dad and George and Angelina announce their departures in quick succession, and soon only five remain. Ron takes the armchair Mum recently vacated while Hermione perches herself on his lap, her arm around his shoulders, his around her waist. Once again Ginny is amused by their cautious unspoken negotiations over how much touching is appropriate in the company of others.
She thinks back on the first year of her marriage, when Harry could scarcely bring himself to kiss her on the cheek if anyone else was in the room, even if they hadn't seen each other for weeks and were both randier than goats. Eventually he loosened up, but it was another year before he felt comfortable enough to make love on the nights when Teddy slept over--though that was mostly because Teddy had once wandered into their bedroom at a critical moment to announce that he'd wet his bed. The man who'd flung himself off of Ginny so hurriedly that night he'd wrenched his knee and been left with a limp for weeks was a far cry from the man who a few hours ago had joked about having sex with her on the dining room table and then snogged her breathless before their friends and family.
"Is Teddy staying over tonight?" Ginny asks Harry.
He glances down as his godson, who is sound asleep, his nose changing shape as he dreams. "No," he says. "I reckon I ought to get him back to Andromeda."
He carefully maneuvers himself out from under Teddy's head, shaking his leg to restore sensation to it, then picks the boy up and drapes him over his shoulder. When he bends down to kiss Ginny, she murmurs, "Hurry back."
She feels his lips curve upward. "I will," is his promise.
Teddy mumbles indistinctly as Ginny tells him goodbye, squeezing his slumber-warmed hand, then Harry heads outside to Apparate with him to Andromeda's house, leaving Ginny with Ron and Hermione.
~
When Harry returns home, he finds Ginny alone, bent over the kitchen counter flipping through what looks like an issue of Witch Weekly, a mug of tea within reach. Grinning, he comes right up behind her so that the roundness of her bum rubs against him in just the right spot.
"Mm," she says, deliberately rocking back into him.
Harry lets out a responding moan as blood rushes below the equator. Grabbing hold of her waist with one hand, he leans over Ginny to reach for the mug with the other.
"It's herbal," she cautions.
He pauses to make a face, then lifts the mug to sniff at the contents. "It's not some lust-inhibiting potion, is it?"
Her laughter causes her bum to vibrate against his erection. She closes the magazine and rises up from the counter. "What would I go and do a mad thing like that for?" she asks, turning around so she's facing him and pulls him flush against her, then lifts her eyebrows. "Though if you have ideas about shagging until I can't walk straight..."
"What makes you think I have anything of the sort in mind?"
He grins wickedly at the feeling of her hands fumbling at his waist, trying to unfasten the button on his jeans. "Maybe because you're about to burst out of your pants?" She begins to lower his zipper, inch by excruciating inch.
Harry sets the mug back on the counter and clears his throat. "'S not what you think it is. Gwen gave me her Beater's bat for safekeeping."
Her whole body shakes in silent mirth. Unable to restrain himself any longer, Harry leans down to kiss her, wrapping his arms around her to hold her close.
When he comes up for air, Ginny's lips are red and swollen, her eyes are glassy, and her hair is as mussed as his. "Welcome home, Ginny," he rasps. "I hope you'll stick around a bit longer this time."
She sticks her tongue out at him. "Prat." She then picks up his right hand and runs the tip of her finger around the edge of his palm. "I see you've picked up a few new callouses since the last time we were together."
He waggles his eyebrows at her. "A man has to do what a man has to do." Rocking his pelvis forward, he says, "About what you said earlier -- about shagging until you can't walk?" His voice goes up at the end.
"Bloody hell, Harry, could you be any more of a randy roger?"
It's not quite the response he's expecting, and it takes him a moment to come up with a reply. "Erm, I suppose I could, but I reckon it would be right painful if the way I feel now is any indication." At the look on her face he whines, "C'mon, Ginny, what was all that you were saying to Hannah earlier about reunion sex?"
"Y'know," she says after staring at him as if he's just sprouted a third eye, "I'm dead knackered. I think I'm just going to turn in. Get some sleep."
The shock is enough to make him let go of her and take a step back. "Oh. Okay. If that's what you want, then... er... okay."
She grabs his wrist and tugs him back. "Oh, Harry," she says, shaking her head. "Why must you always be so easy to take the mickey out of?" The look of apology on her face is somewhat undermined by her giggle. Sucking her lower lip between her teeth and giving him a mischievous look, she then asks, "You know what I really want?"
"What?" His tone is sharpened by the recent injury to his pride, and she picks up on it.
"I want --" She then stands on her toes and whispers something so deliciously lewd in his ear Harry nearly swallows his tongue. Any previous insults and injuries have been immediately forgotten, as he has only one thing on his mind right now.
"Reckon you're up for it?" Ginny rests her palm over the revived bulge in his trousers. All Harry can do is close his eyes and groan, practically thrusting into the warm pressure of her hand. "Mm, feels like you are. Well, c'mon then, before you lose all control." She then takes him by the hand and leads him upstairs.
~
The first time, it's quick and dirty and messy. They don't waste time with the niceties, with caresses or sweet words or staring lovingly into each other's eyes; their attention is on the immediate goal of relief, of releasing the pent-up longing and frustration that built up during their prolonged enforced abstinence while Ginny was on the road playing for the Harpies. After nearly five years of marriage, they are familiar enough with each other to know the quickest, surest road to satisfaction, though their urgency results in more than the usual fumbling.
As clothes are rapidly shed, the world reduces itself to sound: the thump of a shoe hitting a wall, an oath, the creak of bedsprings. Then a series of terse instructions: "Wait - No - Oof, sorry - Bugger! - Hold on, you have - No, that's not - Oh - Yes - Oh, oh - Yes, right there - Oh..." Then heavy breathing punctuated by grunts, the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings that rapidly increases in tempo, then Harry's whoop followed by a long, drawn-out sigh and "Thank Merlin" from Ginny. There is laughter at this, of amusement and affection and agreement, even as they are already reaching for each other again.
The second time, they're more playful and relaxed, the edge having been taken off the urgency of their need. Ginny convinces Harry to try the suggestion she'd made earlier. It's not as successful as they were hoping for, so they revert to more familiar, conventional methods, with an agreement to try again another time.
They end with Harry sitting up against the headboard, Ginny straddling his thighs. It's a position that doesn't let him go as deeply as he'd like, but she likes it because she can control the speed and depth of his thrusts, and they both appreciate the intimacy it offers. He cups her bum or holds her waist as she rises and falls in carefully measured time, holding on to his shoulders for support, delaying his climax until she is near her own.
They often talk when they're like this: praise and encouragement, of course, and the occasional mild correction, but genuine conversations as well. Harry's found it to be an effective delaying tactic, though sometimes he has to talk through clenched teeth, fisting at the sheets to control the urge to thrust. It mystifies him how Ginny can natter on about the most inconsequential matters while she's riding him like this. He wonders sometimes what goes through her mind when they're having sex; she's never given him any reason to believe she's not enjoying herself, and yet she has the presence of mind to go on about the latest broom prototype from Nimbus or ask him if he remembers there's a reception at the Ministry that weekend even while he's sheathed inside her, his mind reeling with pleasure. Tonight, though, she's quiet, although Harry can sense there's something on her mind.
"Harry," Ginny finally says, coming to a rest. "About what Mum said earlier..."
He nearly chokes. "You want to talk about your mum now?"
"Well..." She seems suddenly unsure of herself, something Harry doesn't often see from her. "It's sort of related to what we're doing."
"It is?"
"Yeah." She hesitates before saying, "Y'know, about - about starting a family."
"Oh." It's not what he was expecting, and he's not sure how to react. He reaches up to rest his hand against her cheek, trying to reassure her with his touch. "D'you really want to talk about it now?"
She leans into his hand and brings her hands together behind his neck. They're so close that her breasts brush against his chest. "Maybe now's not really the best time, but we probably ought to soon. Since I'm retired from playing, well..." She gives a little shrug.
"You'll be working for the Prophet, though. It's not as though you won't have anything to do." He doesn't say what he's thinking, that having a baby is a terrible solution for boredom.
"Yeah, but it won't be the same. It's one thing to straddle a broom when you're as big as Fleur is, and another to write about other people doing it."
Harry sees now what she's getting at, and feels a sudden thrill of joy and excitement at the realization that she's seriously considering the idea of starting a family with him. As if of their own accord his hips push upwards; a reciprocal movement from Ginny is his reward. Biting back a gasp, he grips at her waist and thrusts again. "You'll also be around more."
"Right." She leans forward and kisses him, her tongue probing his mouth. "Do you want children, Harry?" she asks a few minutes later.
He is nearly past the point of lucidity, but forces himself back to earth enough to respond, "It's an awful big responsibility to take on."
"Yeah, it is, but that's always going to be true, isn't it?"
"I reckon so."
"So... do you?"
Though it's not a subject that has occupied his mind for the past couple of hours, there are few things Harry has yearned for more than to have children with Ginny. He tells her this in the best way he knows how. He's never possessed the gift of eloquence, but he has been blessed with the love of a woman who understands him perfectly, who looks at him with tears glistening in her eyes as he struggles to find the words that express his heart's desire. When he finds himself unable to go on, she takes his face between her hands and leans forward, murmuring, "I love you, Harry," against his lips just before kissing him.
The rest is like second nature. He clutches her to him when he comes, gasping as if in pain, white-hot light searing his tightly-shut eyes, and she whispers something in his ear that makes him come even harder. Then, as his hips give a few last shuddering jerks she comes as well, her fingers digging into his shoulders as her breath escapes in a series of short, sharp cries. They cling to each other for a long time afterwards, until the last of the aftershocks have faded away and the sweat has dried on their bodies. Then, as his muscles gradually loosen their grip, Harry brings Ginny to lie down beside him and gives himself up to languor.
Yet, despite his exhaustion, Harry is unable to sleep. While Ginny snores softly beside him, the warmth of her body stretched out next to his, her hair fanned out across his chest, he watches the sun rise through the window beside their bed. Dark figures on the moorland become gradually clearer, taking the shape of ponies grazing amongst the heather, the ever-watchful Porlock guarding them from danger. The quacking of ducks feeding around the edges of the pond disturb the stillness of early morning, and in the distance an owl returning home from the night's hunt hoots.
Just before sleep overtakes him, it occurs to Harry that he won't have to prepare himself for Ginny's departure from Holyhead Island come the end of August, as he has done for the past several years. She's home now: home, with him, where she belongs, to stay.
Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought. :-)