Fic - "such a beautiful blank (but smooth it)" | Harry/Ginny | NC-17
Yippie! smutty_claus authors have been revealed! This is mine! (right here!). If I may be not at all humble for a moment, I must say that I love the story I wrote. It's one of my favorite HP stories I've written, and certainly my best H/G. I was really pleased with its reception.
Plus, I got to write for reallycorking, who is made of awesome, and so kind and TALENTED. And it was a joy!
Title: such a beautiful blank (but smooth it)
Author: jenadamson
Recipient: reallycorking
Word Count: 12,500
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Summary: Ginny picks a rose, and her world spins out of control.
Rating: NC-17
Author Notes: This fic was very loosely inspired by tale of Tam Lin, somewhat more inspired by the film Groundhog Day, and named for a line in Sylvia Plath's poem Amnesiac.
Thanks to my betas: r_becca for being her amazing self and going over more than one version of this and being all helpful and fab. alissomora, who read this even though she's not an H/G fan and did a lovely Brit pick for me and was super supportive! And bibliophile20 for giving this a last read-through! Thank you so much, you all. *smishes*
~
She's walking through the woods when she spots it. The October air is crisp, and a canopy of overhanging branches studded with burnished gold and ruby red leaves shades the mossy ground beneath her. Practice ended later than usual, not that it matters much tonight. Harry and Ron are doing their first field assignment with the Auror trainees, and likely won't be back until tomorrow, and Hermione's spending the weekend with her parents in Spain. Which means, for once, Ginny will have the evening to herself. She has a date with a bubble bath, a bottle of wine and a stack of trashy magazines.
She can't explain the compulsion to venture into the patch of forest after practice, but she's been with the team for nearly a month now, and has always been a little enchanted by the woods. Now seems as good a time as any to explore.
The sun has just started to set, and the air sort of shimmers when she enters the woods; it's all creamy yellow light, fresh and sharp, on the edges of the place. But inside it's darker, shaded. Which is why the rose stands out to her, haloed in white light. One perfect rose, white like freshly fallen snow and untouched by the sizzle of autumn color around it, growing from a large, brambly bush. Tucking her wand into her practice robes, Ginny bends to examine it. It's breathtaking, which - yes, she quite likes nature, but Ginny's never really been taken by flowers or anything else so...girly. And regardless, it's merely a rose. Nothing magical or special, not really.
Except that there is. She can feel it. And the compulsion to pick it is ridiculous. She glances furtively around, feeling inexplicably guilty, before she plucks the rose from its spot.
It starts as a gentle roll, like a wind that rustles the leaves, making them crackle. Then the ground shakes. The sound is like thunder.
Ginny shivers.
i
It's not her alarm that wakes her up, but her stupid, imbecilic brother, who's thundering around in the kitchen as if he's mistaken the pots and pans for a set of drums. Ginny groans, looks at the clock, and groans louder. For one thing, it's Saturday, which should mean a day of lying in until at least half-nine, before maybe doing a whole lot of nothing. For another thing, it's decidedly not half-nine, it's not even half-seven, and Ginny's never really been one for waking up earlier than she needs to.
"Ron," Ginny growls, not bothering to throw her dressing gown on over the oversized Harpies T-shirt she went to bed in, before shoving open her bedroom door and all but stomping her way down the hall. The flat isn't much, of course, one bathroom, two bedrooms, a small square living area and an even smaller galley-style kitchen. Between Ginny's wages as the rookie on the Quidditch team, and Ron's earnings from the shop, the two can handle their rent, still have money to spend down at the pub, and not have to buy second hand robes. It's enough. It's theirs. Usually, Ginny's thrilled with it.
Usually.
She comes to a stop.
"And then maybe we can come back here," Ron's saying, as his head emerges from a lower cabinet. He's got a large skillet in one hand, and on the counter Ginny can see a bowlful of brown eggs and a thick slab of bacon. "Catch the Falcons' game on the wireless."
"Ron," Ginny grunts. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" With her hands on her hips, Ginny knows - because her darling brothers often inform her -she does a remarkably good impression of her mother.
Ron's freckled face whips toward her, a scowl already in place. The scent of coffee floods her nose, and there's a bark of familiar laughter behind her. Ginny feels a smile stretch her cheeks - despite the early hour and the fact that she must have bed head - and turns towards the sound.
"Harry," she chirps, the anger melting away. "I thought you weren't coming 'round 'til this afternoon -."
He's wearing a Weasley Jumper, green, with a large 'H' embossed on it (Ginny has his twelve-year-old version of the same sweater folded inside her dresser), and denim trousers. He eyes her for a moment, surprise evident on his face. "Oh, well -" he hedges, casting a fearful look at Ron.
Ginny laughs, moving towards him. "I know I must look hideous, but that's no reason to be afraid of your girlfriend." She tips on her toes and presses a smacking kiss to his chin. His skin is chilled from the early morning air.
"Are you mad?" Ron asks from behind her, slamming the pot down with excessive force. Ginny and Harry both cringe. "Are you still asleep?"
She turns away from Harry to aim a glare at Ron, her arm still flung around Harry's waist. "What are you on about? I've told you a million times, just because you have a problem with me and Harry touching around you doesn't mean we're going to stop, and anyway - "
Beside her, Harry stiffens. You'd think after two plus years of dating, he'd have got used to her kissing him in front of Ron, but -
Ron blinks at her owlishly. Finally, he says, "You're not Harry's girlfriend, you twit."
Ginny lets out a sharp bite of laughter, ignoring the way her stomach drops, and rolls her eyes towards the ceiling. "Of course I -" she begins.
But just then, Harry steps away from her, letting out a bit of nervous laughter. Ginny glances sharply at him, at his pink-stained cheeks and his straight, white teeth. "Um, Ginny," he says, scratching at the back of his neck.
Ginny huffs, loudly. "Quit taking the piss, you two. It's too early for that, and I will hex you."
Harry's face doesn't clear, and Ron looks torn between laying a hand against her forehead to feel her temperature and laughing hysterically. The latter wins out, and for a moment, Ginny laughs with him. But the tension sweeping across her shoulders isn't relieved.
"Funny, Ginny," Ron says, eyes still crinkled. "But I think you're going to give Harry flashbacks to when you were eleven, not to mention - "
"Oh, ha, ha Ron." Harry's taken another step away from her, and - as Ginny watches - he seems to curl in on himself, arms folding across his stomach. Ginny's stomach sinks.
Her gaze moves from Ron's half-amused face to Harry's worried one, his forehead furrowed in concern, eyes confused behind his glasses.
"What are you...?" She forces a laugh, feels her face heat. They're both just looking at her. "I think - I mean - I have to go," she finally pushes out. She's got cotton padding filling up her chest.
She dashes out of the kitchen, back down the hallway to her room. Behind her, she hears Ron mutter, "She's mad," and she's not inclined to disagree. She glances at her vanity; a dead, white rose stares morosely up at her.
~
It's not really happening. Even as she Apparates back to the forest along the edge of the practice field, she tells herself, over and over, that it can't possibly be happening. It had been a silly dream, her own ridiculous subconscious manifesting her fears, and even though the place is eerily familiar, she's not too worried. Actually, she's probably still dreaming.
The forest is the same. A riot of colourful leaves attached to the branches above her, swaying in the stupidly cold air; harsh white sunlight that pricks through the leaves to dot the dark, mossy ground, scattered with decaying branches and dead vegetation.
The path back to the rose bush is swept clean of debris, and it's a quick walk, not even twenty minutes, before Ginny's standing in front of it. It looks nearly the same, save for the white rose, and Ginny holds the offending flower in her hand. She stares at it, in its pathetic crushed state with dead, grey petals.
It must have been a dream.
~
Ginny had never experienced an earthquake, but she was positive that was what was happening now. The ground trembled, as if at any moment it would open up and swallow her whole.
Ginny tumbled down, still holding the freshly-plucked rose in her hand, and the forest changed. The puddle of light spilling on the bush grew sharper, whiter, as all around its glowing circle the forest went pitch black, darker than midnight. Ginny could feel eyes on her. She shivered again, now sprawled gracelessly on the ground, and watched in amazement as a shape appeared before her eyes. It wasn't like Apparating, where the person appeared in an instant, but rather as if the molecules were gathering around, spinning in a wind tunnel, twirling round and round and slowly coming together to reveal the most beautiful woman Ginny had ever seen.
She was impossibly tall, though Ginny would never compare her with a giant. No, there was nothing oafish about this woman. In many ways, she reminded Ginny of Fleur: pale, smooth skin, long, near-white hair, pointed chin and a wide, unsmiling mouth. Clothed in a long column of ivory silk, if the cool air affected her at all she didn't show it, while Ginny, huddled on the ground, her hair in her eyes, and the crushed rose in her grip, shivered in her Quidditch robes.
Eyes the colour of a stormy winter morning lighted on Ginny.
"You dare pick my rose, you foolish girl." Her voice sent chills down Ginny's spine.
"Your rose," Ginny echoed, staring up the stretch of woman before her. She wasn't holding a wand, Ginny realized, which meant she wasn't a witch, but then -
"Oh," Ginny squeaked. "I'm really, really sorry. You must be an elf." She let out a bit of hysterical laughter. "I was walking along and I saw this rose and it was just so beautiful. I didn't think -"
"No, it's clear that you didn't," the woman interrupted. Ginny was sure she saw her breath freeze the air around her. "I'm more than mere elf, girl, I am queen of the high elves, and that rose you plucked belongs to me."
"You can have it back," Ginny tried, holding it out. There was dirt underneath her fingernails.
"It has been soiled by your unworthy touch." She sneered down at Ginny, who felt heat sweep across her shoulders.
"I had no idea it belonged to you," Ginny began to explain, the rose still extended in her hand. "If there's anything I can do to -"
"Stand before me," she demanded, "and tell me, witch - "
Ginny huffed and scrambled to her feet.
"Do you always take that which does not belong to you?"
Feeling her eyes narrow and the tips of her ears heat, Ginny puffed out her chest and stood at her full height (not much, considering).
"It's not as if there was a sign saying 'don't pick me'," she spat. "If I had known it was yours, I wouldn't have taken it, but, as I've already tried to explain, I didn't. I am really, really sorry. If there's anything I can do to make up for it, I will, but I won't stand here and let you belittle me, you, you overgrown fairy." She stopped abruptly, suddenly out of breath, and bit hard on her lip.
For a moment, the woman coolly appraised Ginny, her ice-blue eyes sweeping across Ginny's face. Ginny jutted out her chin. She wouldn't let this woman - no, this Elfin Queen - cow her into feeling like a child.
The smile that suddenly lit the Queen's face was anything but kind, cruel and cold, like her eyes. "I see," she said. Ginny tried not to squirm beneath her gaze.
"Well, Ginevra - " Ginny gasped. " - it appears you're in need of a lesson. Perhaps losing that which is most precious to you would teach you not to take that which doesn't belong in your spoiled grasp."
"Do you want my broom?" Ginny asked stupidly. "It's back at the pitch - "
Cold, highly amused laughter cut her off. "I don't want something, you foolish mortal."
"Some..."
"Before the next new moon," she continued, talking over Ginny. "You'll have all the time in the world to win him back. But when you give up, he is mine."
"What - who? That doesn't make sense."
But already the Queen was dissipating before her eyes, as if becoming a part of the forest. The light turning yellow again, creamier, and the woods around Ginny growing brighter. "All the time in the world," her voice echoed in Ginny's head. And then she was gone.
Ginny woke up in her bed, and barely remembered the dream about the Queen and her dead, decaying rose.
~
"H-hello," Ginny calls. The forest is calm and quiet. Nothing but the rustling wind answers. "Listen," Ginny yells again. "I am still terribly sorry about picking your rose. And - and I see that you're, you know, very powerful, and can obviously erase memories and make my life mi...miserable. You've proved your point. If you could just tell me what to do, I promise I'll - I mean, whatever you want from me, you can - "
Ginny's fumbling voice echoes back, but everything else remains quiet. She lets the tension snaking its way through her belly overwhelm her. Still holding the broken rose, she sinks to the ground, and pulls her knees up to her chin, letting her shoulders shake.
~
It's at least three hours before she returns home. A Cannons calendar Ron had charmed up to the right of the Muggle refrigerator hangs orangely on the wall, each past October day already crossed off. Yesterday was a new moon, Ginny notices, and she has all the time in the world to win Harry back, which sounds vaguely ominous and makes Ginny itchy under her skin, impatient.
As if answering some silent plea, just after her shower, Ginny hears Ron and Harry moving around the flat. She slips on a dangerously low-cut shirt, aims her wand at herself to dry her hair and bites her bottom lip. She scrutinizes herself in the mirror, deciding if she should bother with make-up. Her skin looks awfully pale, and -
"That blouse is little low cut, don't you think, dearie?" the mirror's waspish voice interrupts her thoughts.
Ginny scowls at her reflection. "Shut it," she mutters, before heading out to the hall.
"Hey, you two," Ginny calls from the kitchen doorway, a flirty smile already in place.
Twin looks of worry and fright greet her. "H-hi, Ginny," Harry answers cautiously, his eyes all but popping out of his head. Her shirt is blue - Harry's favorite colour on her - and shows ample stretches of her freckled chest. She lets her smile grow wider, her eyes grow warmer. "Hi, Harry," she purrs.
"What the hell are you wearing?" Ron barks at her.
Ginny swings innocent eyes his way. "This?" She glances down at herself, at the scrap of clothing the shop three blocks over had called a mini-skirt and the ponderously high heels. "It's nothing, just something I threw on." She flashes another smile in Harry's direction. "You like it?"
Ron's scowl goes deeper. "It's practically nothing," he mumbles. "Go change," he orders. "You look like a scarlet woman."
"Don't be so old-fashioned, Ron," Ginny says around a huff.
She steps further into the kitchen. Harry backs up against the counter as Ron sniffs annoyingly. "What?" Ginny demands, narrowing her eyes at him.
Ron coughs. "How much perfume do you have on?"
Aiming another glare at him, Ginny feels her face heat. "Not any more than usual, you idiot." And, okay, maybe she used a little more than was needed, but it was Harry's favorite scent. He'd told her many times.
"Anyway," Ginny says dismissively. She does a graceful turn toward Harry, which, yes, might be more effective if she could walk in the damn shoes without tripping over her own feet, but - "what are you two up to for the evening?"
Ron eyes her. "Dunno," he says. "Why? You still think Harry's your boyfriend?"
"Oh, that?" Ginny lets out a tinkling laugh. "That was a joke. Obviously."
"Obviously," Ron parrots.
Harry lets out a nervous laugh and says, "Good one, Gin."
Ginny beams. "So, what are your plans for tonight?" she asks again.
Harry shrugs. "Prolly go down to the pub in a little bit. Get a bite to eat."
"Neat. Do you two mind if I join you?"
"In that?" Ron croaks, just as Harry says, "You're more than welcome."
Ginny grins. "Just let me get my purse."
~
Okay, so maybe going to the pub dressed like she was out to prove something had been a bad idea, but it certainly wasn't her fault that three separate blokes had tried to pick her up in the first twenty minutes, nor was it her fault that her overprotective Neanderthal of a brother had rushed headlong into a fist fight with the first bloke who touched her arse.
Ginny can handle herself, after all, and a surreptitiously placed hex would have been far more effective. So what if they left after their first pints and Harry decided to go spend a quiet evening at home? Ginny has plenty of time; she can do this.
It won't be so bad. She can make Harry fall in love with her, no problem. She knows everything about him already, what he likes, what he hates. How hard can it be?
She slips into bed just after the sun sinks down in a sizzle past the horizon, flicks off the lamp and rolls over. Tomorrow is a new day, after all. It can't be any worse than today.
ii
Ron again, the moron. You'd think after her fit yesterday, he would learn to keep his breakfast ministrations down before it was even eight in the morning. Not that she should really expect much from a bloke who doesn't do his washing until his girlfriend refuses to step into his bedroom, but still, a little consideration isn't too much to ask.
Ginny throws back her covers, stomps her way into the kitchen to hear Ron mutter something about the Falcons game. She stops in the doorway, hands already on her hips, ready to growl and wishing she'd brought her wand out of her bedroom. Maybe she could go back to her room, teach Ron a lesson about waking up his sister on both of her days off in a row. He deserves it, after all. She needs her rest if she's going to win Harry back, and she is certainly not letting some twelve-foot-tall blonde with pointy ears get him, that's for damn -
"Hi, Ginny," says a voice off to her left. "Did we wake you?"
Ron lays the skillet he just pulled out from the cabinet down next to another bowl of eggs. Ginny spins towards Harry, a small smile already working its way onto her face. He's wearing yet another Molly Weasley-made jumper. The green makes his eyes shine darker than usual.
"Well, Ron did anyway," Ginny says with an offended glare aimed his direction. "Two days in a row, I might add." She looks back at Harry. "Harry, I know you like my Mum's sweaters, but don't you think you could mix it up a bit? Didn't she make you one with a Horntail on it?"
There's coffee percolating on the stove. The smell makes Ginny's chest swell, and she moves to pour herself a large mug. "Anyway, did you have a good night at home last night? I really just had no idea my outfit would attract so much -" Ginny pauses at the confused look on Harry's face. "Attention," she finishes slowly. "Wait." She turns quickly to Ron, hot coffee sloshing over the side of the mug. "You were talking about the Falcons game earlier?"
There's a sinking feeling weighing her stomach down, like the time she realized they had a potions' exam that she hadn't studied for, only much, much worse.
Harry answers, "Yeah," for Ron, adding, "we were thinking about catching it on the wireless, or maybe heading to the pub for a bit, after we catch a nap."
Ginny turns slowly back to Harry, stares at him. His glasses are crooked. "And why would you need to catch a nap? Also, the Falcons played yesterday. They won by thirty points."
"Ah, no it wasn't, Ginny. It's today. Are you feeling quite right?"
"No - I mean, yes, I'm feeling fine. But no, the game was yesterday. Saturday." She points towards the Cannons calendar.
"Um, Gin," Ron slowly says from behind, as if talking to a small child. "Today is Saturday."
Ginny glances at the calendar. "No, it's - oh." Saturday is not marked off, and she is certain, absolutely certain, that she put an X there before retiring for the evening. "But -" She feels her eyebrows draw together, glances down at herself, only to see that she's clad in the same Harpies T-shirt she woke up in the day before.
She backs away from the calendar. "Ginny," Ron says. "What's wrong with you?"
"What did you two do last night?" she demands. Her hand is wet and hot from the coffee; it's probably burnt. She should really put the mug down.
Ron casts a look at Harry before answering. "We had our first night out with Kingsley. It was wicked, really. I cast two spells and Harry cast one, and even - "
"Your first night out," Ginny interrupts. "Your first night out with the Aurors."
"Uh, yeah, that's what I said."
Ginny looks at the calendar again, glances at Harry and the 'H' on his sweater, at the eggs on the counter. "But that's impossible," she mutters.
Ron approaches her cautiously, like a third year approaching one of Hagrid's mad hybrid creations. He takes the coffee out of her grasp and sets the mug on the table. "Maybe you should go back to bed. I think you might actually still be asleep."
"I'm not tired," Ginny says. "I'm fine. I just - you were just -" She looks sharply at Harry. "You're not my boyfriend, are you?"
Harry's eyes go wide behind his stupid, crooked glasses. "Ah, N-no, I'm not."
"Right," Ginny mumbles. "Didn't think so."
Ron laughs. "Ginny, you must still be dreaming."
Ginny answers with a mirthless laugh of her own. "You're right," she agrees. "I am. Still dreaming." She crosses the room, arms folded over her chest. "I'll be heading back to my room now, yeah?"
In the hallway, she hears Ron declare, "She's mad," and Ginny scowls viciously.
~
Ginny has always considered herself a fairly positive person. Bright, fun, perky, even. Glass half full and all that. But trying to remain positive in the face of...whatever the hell seems to be happening is proving difficult. Yet another trip to the forest, and all she has for her trouble is wind-bitten cheeks and chapped lips. She checks the calendar one last time, and it can't be explained, not even with magic, but it's clear that today is the tomorrow that never actually happened. Ginny thinks back on the Queen's words from two days ago - or yesterday, depending on whose time clock you were going by. She has all the time in the world to get her Harry to love her again, but how on earth -
Elfin magic is completely different from wizard magic, older and stronger, not bound by the same physical laws. There is no way she will be able to break it, force Harry and Ron and probably everyone else she knows to remember the world as it was, not on her own, anyway. If Hermione were here, she'd know what to do, even if she thought Ginny was completely nuts. Of course, the way things were going, Ginny 's not so certain she isn't off her rocker.
She shakes herself. She needs a shower, and a new game plan, one that possibly involves research. She's going to get her life back. No matter what.
~
Come to think of it, Ginny kind of detests her life.
Somehow, she imagined going to the pub with Ron and Harry for a few pints would be enjoyable, would make Harry start whatever process he had to go through to remember he loved her again, but sitting in the dimly lit room, getting very slowly drunk with a stinging burnt hand and a what feels like a gaping hole in her chest is possibly more than she can handle right now.
She opts for jeans and a pullover this time around, and though Harry's eyes don't pop out of his head at the sight of her, no fistfights start, not even after three hours, which feels like headway. Or, it should.
The problem is.... well, the problem is that Ginny doesn't know how to act around Harry. For the past two years she's been his girlfriend. She's been in love with him, and he with her. But in his reality, he's not in love with her. He doesn't look at her as anything more than his best friend's little sister. It's clear he likes her well enough: he smiles at her, asks questions like he's interested, seems to know all about her spot on the Quidditch team and teases her with familiarity when she orders a lemon wedge with her pint.
He's still fundamentally Harry. Still sticks his tongue between his teeth when he's concentrating, and talks with his hands when he gets excited. Still needlessly straightens his glasses and smells the same: like sandalwood and sweat. But he doesn't hold her hand, or lean over and brush the hair out from her eyes. He doesn't look at her as if he -
"You okay, Ginny? You look a little sad." She looks at Harry, at the concern in his eyes and gives a shaky smile.
She nods and blinks quickly, taking a sip from her ale. There's an ache deep in her stomach. How is it possible to miss someone who's sitting right in front of you?
iii
She's expecting it this time, what sounds like a marching band rumbling from the kitchen as pots and pans are shoved around. She doesn't need to look down to know she's sporting an oversized Harpies shirt, nor does she need to go down the hall to see Harry's dark green pullover and Ron's attempts at breakfast for the day.
For Today.
Again.
~
Though she knows it will be entirely useless, she can't let go of the hope that she can find the Queen and promise she's learned her lesson; she'll plant whole rows of magical white roses for her, if she'd just let Ginny have her life back. Hell, Ginny thinks she'd be willing to give up Quidditch and take up with Neville, study Herbology until her thumbs literally turn green, if Harry would remember her, really remember her.
So, yes, she knows sitting on the hard, cold forest floor with a dead rose clutched in her hand talking at the trees is futile, and possibly means she should give be given a corner room with a view next to Lockhart in St. Mungo's ward for the disturbingly insane, but she doesn't really know what else to do, and hey, it's not as if she's in a rush.
~
Harry and Ron are puttering around the kitchen when she arrives home. Her lips are chapped and her hair wind-blown. She's tired, and it's not a regular sort of tired, but weary, bone-deep exhaustion, like she's been running non-stop and there's no end in sight.
"Hi, Ginny," Harry says when his eyes land on her. Again, he's wearing the same pullover, dark green and hand knit, and Ginny's really starting to hate it. His hair sticks straight up in back, from the nap Ginny knows he took, though she hasn't spoken to him yet today. Not really. Not technically.
"Hello, baby sister," Ron greets happily when he sees her. "What were you up to today?"
"Ah," Ginny hedges. She knows her cheeks must be red from the cold. "Playing Quidditch," she eventually lies.
"You'd think you'd get enough of that during practice."
"Doubtful," Harry says, and Ginny just gives a mirthless laugh, says, "Yeah, you'd think I would."
"Anyway," Ron says, "we're going to the pub for some dinner. You want t'come?"
"Nah. I'm not really up to it tonight."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, Ron. Thanks though. You two have fun."
"Okay." He steps up in front of her, brushes a kiss along her forehead.
Ginny pulls back, eyes him. Harry's watching from his spot near the stove. "What was that for?"
Ron shrugs, and looks a little embarrassed, the tips of ears going pink. "You just look a little sad, is all. Just tryin' to make you feel better." He gives her a mock frown. "Don't expect it too often."
Ginny blinks back wetness and smiles at him. "I wouldn't dream of it," she promises, before lifting up and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you," she whispers. "Now you two, go," she orders, louder. "Have manly fun."
Harry gives her a small smile. Ginny watches him walk away, the slight twist of his shoulders and his slate-black hair. She sighs. What she needs to do, she decides, is get really, really drunk.
~
The Muggle club is crowded, smack dab in the middle of London, and music's throbbing under everything, making her teeth ache. It's all chrome and glass, with big leather couches shoved into corners. The type of place that's easy to get lost in, which is...just about perfect.
The girl behind the bar smiles prettily at Ginny when she slides onto a stool. "What can I get for you, love?"
Ginny frowns, eyes sweeping the rows of liquor behind the bar until she finally just settles on, "Something strong, please."
"One of those days, yeah?" the woman says, a knowing smile playing around her lips.
"You don't know the half of it."
"I've got the cure for that, I think." A tumbler, filled three fingers high with something clear and certainly vile finds it way in front of Ginny. She throws it back, and there's a satisfying burn in stomach. Ginny pushes the glass back. "Another, please."
Three shots in, and Ginny's feeling good and buzzed. Her lips are just this side of numb, and the music twirls through her body, moving it along.
Four shots in, and she's on the dance floor, bumping and grinding in a sea smelling of sweat and jasmine.
She's laughing when she spots him smiling at her. He's tall with narrow shoulders and dark, dark hair, and his voice, when he offers to buy her a drink, is smooth and slow like honey. They end up on a couch together, the leather sticky against her thighs. There's an ache in her belly, and her vision is blurry at the edges, gone soft from booze and the heat of the club.
She thinks about Harry, about his eyes when he smiles at her and his crooked glasses, his white teeth and the way he always smells the same. She lets this bloke - Mark, he said his name was - with his bright eyes and his pink tongue, push her against the couch. She closes her eyes when he kisses her and touches the skin of her stomach with cold, calloused hands.
It's after two before Ginny Apparates home on shaky legs, landing with a pop in the middle of the front room. Ron's snores greet her immediately, loud and wet sounding, and Harry's sitting in a chair next to the fireplace, looking sleepy but still awake.
"What are you doing here?" Ginny slurs, already unbuttoning her coat.
Harry glares blearily up at her from beneath the dark hair fallen in his eyes. "Well, I was waiting for you."
"Why?"
"We got back late and you weren't here. Just wanted to make certain you weren't...run over by an angry hippogriff or something."
Ginny peels off her coat and lets it puddle on the floor, watching smugly as Harry's eyes go wide. She knows how she looks, sweaty and probably thoroughly kissed, with what feels like a bruise in the shape of lips along her collarbone.
"Where -" Harry swallows. "Where were you?"
Shrugging her shoulders, Ginny wobbles her way into the kitchen. Water sounds just about perfect right now.
Harry's up and behind her in a flash. "Where were you?" he demands again, his voice quiet so as not to wake Ron from his slobbery slumber on the couch.
Ginny gulps down the cold water, both hands clutched around the glass, and leans her hips against the counter. She shrugs again. "I was out."
"I thought you said you were tired."
"Harry." Ginny frowns at him, putting down the glass. "What are even doing here? You have a flat of your own, don't you?"
Looking offended, Harry takes a step back. "We were worried about you," he explains.
Ginny's quiet, listening to Ron's snores. "Ron sounds really worried."
"He was. He just fell asleep."
"I'm a big girl."
"I'm well aware. But you looked sad when we left, and then you weren't here, so we decided to stay up and wait for you. Ron fell asleep, but I just decided to - "
"That's very sweet of you, Harry, but as you can see, I'm perfectly fine."
"You look perfectly fine," Harry comments dryly, watching as she shoves away from the counter to stagger towards her bedroom.
Ginny whips shakily around at her door to find him right behind her. "Don't you dare judge me, Harry Potter."
"I'm not," Harry whispers furiously. "I'm just -" He sighs and scratches the back of his head. "You looked sad, and now you come home pissed, and it's - I just wanted to make certain you were all right."
"You're not my brother."
"I know that, but I am your friend, and I was concerned. Because, you know." He gestures. "That what friends do."
Ginny lets out a bitter laugh. "Heh, friends. You know what friends do, Harry? They, they remember things, like birthdays and favourite foods and - "
"I remember your birthday - "
"And favourite colors, and they remember their girlfriends. But you," she screeches, barreling along despite the total confusion written on Harry's face, and jabbing a finger at him. "You just go and forget, like it was that easy. You, you - well, you're a total arse, that's what you are. Do you know how hard this has been? Do you? Watching you and wanting you and you don't even remember anything about me." She points a shaky finger at him. "Well, screw you, Harry Potter. I don't need you!"
She slams the door in his face. The last thing she sees just before it clicks shut are his eyes, soft and green behind his glasses, rounded with shock.
Digging in the second drawer of her dresser, Ginny pulls out a small, dark green sweater. She curls up with it on her bed, her nose pressed into its cables, and falls asleep, dizzy, with tears in her eyes.
continue to part two
Plus, I got to write for reallycorking, who is made of awesome, and so kind and TALENTED. And it was a joy!
Title: such a beautiful blank (but smooth it)
Author: jenadamson
Recipient: reallycorking
Word Count: 12,500
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Summary: Ginny picks a rose, and her world spins out of control.
Rating: NC-17
Author Notes: This fic was very loosely inspired by tale of Tam Lin, somewhat more inspired by the film Groundhog Day, and named for a line in Sylvia Plath's poem Amnesiac.
Thanks to my betas: r_becca for being her amazing self and going over more than one version of this and being all helpful and fab. alissomora, who read this even though she's not an H/G fan and did a lovely Brit pick for me and was super supportive! And bibliophile20 for giving this a last read-through! Thank you so much, you all. *smishes*
~
She's walking through the woods when she spots it. The October air is crisp, and a canopy of overhanging branches studded with burnished gold and ruby red leaves shades the mossy ground beneath her. Practice ended later than usual, not that it matters much tonight. Harry and Ron are doing their first field assignment with the Auror trainees, and likely won't be back until tomorrow, and Hermione's spending the weekend with her parents in Spain. Which means, for once, Ginny will have the evening to herself. She has a date with a bubble bath, a bottle of wine and a stack of trashy magazines.
She can't explain the compulsion to venture into the patch of forest after practice, but she's been with the team for nearly a month now, and has always been a little enchanted by the woods. Now seems as good a time as any to explore.
The sun has just started to set, and the air sort of shimmers when she enters the woods; it's all creamy yellow light, fresh and sharp, on the edges of the place. But inside it's darker, shaded. Which is why the rose stands out to her, haloed in white light. One perfect rose, white like freshly fallen snow and untouched by the sizzle of autumn color around it, growing from a large, brambly bush. Tucking her wand into her practice robes, Ginny bends to examine it. It's breathtaking, which - yes, she quite likes nature, but Ginny's never really been taken by flowers or anything else so...girly. And regardless, it's merely a rose. Nothing magical or special, not really.
Except that there is. She can feel it. And the compulsion to pick it is ridiculous. She glances furtively around, feeling inexplicably guilty, before she plucks the rose from its spot.
It starts as a gentle roll, like a wind that rustles the leaves, making them crackle. Then the ground shakes. The sound is like thunder.
Ginny shivers.
i
It's not her alarm that wakes her up, but her stupid, imbecilic brother, who's thundering around in the kitchen as if he's mistaken the pots and pans for a set of drums. Ginny groans, looks at the clock, and groans louder. For one thing, it's Saturday, which should mean a day of lying in until at least half-nine, before maybe doing a whole lot of nothing. For another thing, it's decidedly not half-nine, it's not even half-seven, and Ginny's never really been one for waking up earlier than she needs to.
"Ron," Ginny growls, not bothering to throw her dressing gown on over the oversized Harpies T-shirt she went to bed in, before shoving open her bedroom door and all but stomping her way down the hall. The flat isn't much, of course, one bathroom, two bedrooms, a small square living area and an even smaller galley-style kitchen. Between Ginny's wages as the rookie on the Quidditch team, and Ron's earnings from the shop, the two can handle their rent, still have money to spend down at the pub, and not have to buy second hand robes. It's enough. It's theirs. Usually, Ginny's thrilled with it.
Usually.
She comes to a stop.
"And then maybe we can come back here," Ron's saying, as his head emerges from a lower cabinet. He's got a large skillet in one hand, and on the counter Ginny can see a bowlful of brown eggs and a thick slab of bacon. "Catch the Falcons' game on the wireless."
"Ron," Ginny grunts. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" With her hands on her hips, Ginny knows - because her darling brothers often inform her -she does a remarkably good impression of her mother.
Ron's freckled face whips toward her, a scowl already in place. The scent of coffee floods her nose, and there's a bark of familiar laughter behind her. Ginny feels a smile stretch her cheeks - despite the early hour and the fact that she must have bed head - and turns towards the sound.
"Harry," she chirps, the anger melting away. "I thought you weren't coming 'round 'til this afternoon -."
He's wearing a Weasley Jumper, green, with a large 'H' embossed on it (Ginny has his twelve-year-old version of the same sweater folded inside her dresser), and denim trousers. He eyes her for a moment, surprise evident on his face. "Oh, well -" he hedges, casting a fearful look at Ron.
Ginny laughs, moving towards him. "I know I must look hideous, but that's no reason to be afraid of your girlfriend." She tips on her toes and presses a smacking kiss to his chin. His skin is chilled from the early morning air.
"Are you mad?" Ron asks from behind her, slamming the pot down with excessive force. Ginny and Harry both cringe. "Are you still asleep?"
She turns away from Harry to aim a glare at Ron, her arm still flung around Harry's waist. "What are you on about? I've told you a million times, just because you have a problem with me and Harry touching around you doesn't mean we're going to stop, and anyway - "
Beside her, Harry stiffens. You'd think after two plus years of dating, he'd have got used to her kissing him in front of Ron, but -
Ron blinks at her owlishly. Finally, he says, "You're not Harry's girlfriend, you twit."
Ginny lets out a sharp bite of laughter, ignoring the way her stomach drops, and rolls her eyes towards the ceiling. "Of course I -" she begins.
But just then, Harry steps away from her, letting out a bit of nervous laughter. Ginny glances sharply at him, at his pink-stained cheeks and his straight, white teeth. "Um, Ginny," he says, scratching at the back of his neck.
Ginny huffs, loudly. "Quit taking the piss, you two. It's too early for that, and I will hex you."
Harry's face doesn't clear, and Ron looks torn between laying a hand against her forehead to feel her temperature and laughing hysterically. The latter wins out, and for a moment, Ginny laughs with him. But the tension sweeping across her shoulders isn't relieved.
"Funny, Ginny," Ron says, eyes still crinkled. "But I think you're going to give Harry flashbacks to when you were eleven, not to mention - "
"Oh, ha, ha Ron." Harry's taken another step away from her, and - as Ginny watches - he seems to curl in on himself, arms folding across his stomach. Ginny's stomach sinks.
Her gaze moves from Ron's half-amused face to Harry's worried one, his forehead furrowed in concern, eyes confused behind his glasses.
"What are you...?" She forces a laugh, feels her face heat. They're both just looking at her. "I think - I mean - I have to go," she finally pushes out. She's got cotton padding filling up her chest.
She dashes out of the kitchen, back down the hallway to her room. Behind her, she hears Ron mutter, "She's mad," and she's not inclined to disagree. She glances at her vanity; a dead, white rose stares morosely up at her.
~
It's not really happening. Even as she Apparates back to the forest along the edge of the practice field, she tells herself, over and over, that it can't possibly be happening. It had been a silly dream, her own ridiculous subconscious manifesting her fears, and even though the place is eerily familiar, she's not too worried. Actually, she's probably still dreaming.
The forest is the same. A riot of colourful leaves attached to the branches above her, swaying in the stupidly cold air; harsh white sunlight that pricks through the leaves to dot the dark, mossy ground, scattered with decaying branches and dead vegetation.
The path back to the rose bush is swept clean of debris, and it's a quick walk, not even twenty minutes, before Ginny's standing in front of it. It looks nearly the same, save for the white rose, and Ginny holds the offending flower in her hand. She stares at it, in its pathetic crushed state with dead, grey petals.
It must have been a dream.
~
Ginny had never experienced an earthquake, but she was positive that was what was happening now. The ground trembled, as if at any moment it would open up and swallow her whole.
Ginny tumbled down, still holding the freshly-plucked rose in her hand, and the forest changed. The puddle of light spilling on the bush grew sharper, whiter, as all around its glowing circle the forest went pitch black, darker than midnight. Ginny could feel eyes on her. She shivered again, now sprawled gracelessly on the ground, and watched in amazement as a shape appeared before her eyes. It wasn't like Apparating, where the person appeared in an instant, but rather as if the molecules were gathering around, spinning in a wind tunnel, twirling round and round and slowly coming together to reveal the most beautiful woman Ginny had ever seen.
She was impossibly tall, though Ginny would never compare her with a giant. No, there was nothing oafish about this woman. In many ways, she reminded Ginny of Fleur: pale, smooth skin, long, near-white hair, pointed chin and a wide, unsmiling mouth. Clothed in a long column of ivory silk, if the cool air affected her at all she didn't show it, while Ginny, huddled on the ground, her hair in her eyes, and the crushed rose in her grip, shivered in her Quidditch robes.
Eyes the colour of a stormy winter morning lighted on Ginny.
"You dare pick my rose, you foolish girl." Her voice sent chills down Ginny's spine.
"Your rose," Ginny echoed, staring up the stretch of woman before her. She wasn't holding a wand, Ginny realized, which meant she wasn't a witch, but then -
"Oh," Ginny squeaked. "I'm really, really sorry. You must be an elf." She let out a bit of hysterical laughter. "I was walking along and I saw this rose and it was just so beautiful. I didn't think -"
"No, it's clear that you didn't," the woman interrupted. Ginny was sure she saw her breath freeze the air around her. "I'm more than mere elf, girl, I am queen of the high elves, and that rose you plucked belongs to me."
"You can have it back," Ginny tried, holding it out. There was dirt underneath her fingernails.
"It has been soiled by your unworthy touch." She sneered down at Ginny, who felt heat sweep across her shoulders.
"I had no idea it belonged to you," Ginny began to explain, the rose still extended in her hand. "If there's anything I can do to -"
"Stand before me," she demanded, "and tell me, witch - "
Ginny huffed and scrambled to her feet.
"Do you always take that which does not belong to you?"
Feeling her eyes narrow and the tips of her ears heat, Ginny puffed out her chest and stood at her full height (not much, considering).
"It's not as if there was a sign saying 'don't pick me'," she spat. "If I had known it was yours, I wouldn't have taken it, but, as I've already tried to explain, I didn't. I am really, really sorry. If there's anything I can do to make up for it, I will, but I won't stand here and let you belittle me, you, you overgrown fairy." She stopped abruptly, suddenly out of breath, and bit hard on her lip.
For a moment, the woman coolly appraised Ginny, her ice-blue eyes sweeping across Ginny's face. Ginny jutted out her chin. She wouldn't let this woman - no, this Elfin Queen - cow her into feeling like a child.
The smile that suddenly lit the Queen's face was anything but kind, cruel and cold, like her eyes. "I see," she said. Ginny tried not to squirm beneath her gaze.
"Well, Ginevra - " Ginny gasped. " - it appears you're in need of a lesson. Perhaps losing that which is most precious to you would teach you not to take that which doesn't belong in your spoiled grasp."
"Do you want my broom?" Ginny asked stupidly. "It's back at the pitch - "
Cold, highly amused laughter cut her off. "I don't want something, you foolish mortal."
"Some..."
"Before the next new moon," she continued, talking over Ginny. "You'll have all the time in the world to win him back. But when you give up, he is mine."
"What - who? That doesn't make sense."
But already the Queen was dissipating before her eyes, as if becoming a part of the forest. The light turning yellow again, creamier, and the woods around Ginny growing brighter. "All the time in the world," her voice echoed in Ginny's head. And then she was gone.
Ginny woke up in her bed, and barely remembered the dream about the Queen and her dead, decaying rose.
~
"H-hello," Ginny calls. The forest is calm and quiet. Nothing but the rustling wind answers. "Listen," Ginny yells again. "I am still terribly sorry about picking your rose. And - and I see that you're, you know, very powerful, and can obviously erase memories and make my life mi...miserable. You've proved your point. If you could just tell me what to do, I promise I'll - I mean, whatever you want from me, you can - "
Ginny's fumbling voice echoes back, but everything else remains quiet. She lets the tension snaking its way through her belly overwhelm her. Still holding the broken rose, she sinks to the ground, and pulls her knees up to her chin, letting her shoulders shake.
~
It's at least three hours before she returns home. A Cannons calendar Ron had charmed up to the right of the Muggle refrigerator hangs orangely on the wall, each past October day already crossed off. Yesterday was a new moon, Ginny notices, and she has all the time in the world to win Harry back, which sounds vaguely ominous and makes Ginny itchy under her skin, impatient.
As if answering some silent plea, just after her shower, Ginny hears Ron and Harry moving around the flat. She slips on a dangerously low-cut shirt, aims her wand at herself to dry her hair and bites her bottom lip. She scrutinizes herself in the mirror, deciding if she should bother with make-up. Her skin looks awfully pale, and -
"That blouse is little low cut, don't you think, dearie?" the mirror's waspish voice interrupts her thoughts.
Ginny scowls at her reflection. "Shut it," she mutters, before heading out to the hall.
"Hey, you two," Ginny calls from the kitchen doorway, a flirty smile already in place.
Twin looks of worry and fright greet her. "H-hi, Ginny," Harry answers cautiously, his eyes all but popping out of his head. Her shirt is blue - Harry's favorite colour on her - and shows ample stretches of her freckled chest. She lets her smile grow wider, her eyes grow warmer. "Hi, Harry," she purrs.
"What the hell are you wearing?" Ron barks at her.
Ginny swings innocent eyes his way. "This?" She glances down at herself, at the scrap of clothing the shop three blocks over had called a mini-skirt and the ponderously high heels. "It's nothing, just something I threw on." She flashes another smile in Harry's direction. "You like it?"
Ron's scowl goes deeper. "It's practically nothing," he mumbles. "Go change," he orders. "You look like a scarlet woman."
"Don't be so old-fashioned, Ron," Ginny says around a huff.
She steps further into the kitchen. Harry backs up against the counter as Ron sniffs annoyingly. "What?" Ginny demands, narrowing her eyes at him.
Ron coughs. "How much perfume do you have on?"
Aiming another glare at him, Ginny feels her face heat. "Not any more than usual, you idiot." And, okay, maybe she used a little more than was needed, but it was Harry's favorite scent. He'd told her many times.
"Anyway," Ginny says dismissively. She does a graceful turn toward Harry, which, yes, might be more effective if she could walk in the damn shoes without tripping over her own feet, but - "what are you two up to for the evening?"
Ron eyes her. "Dunno," he says. "Why? You still think Harry's your boyfriend?"
"Oh, that?" Ginny lets out a tinkling laugh. "That was a joke. Obviously."
"Obviously," Ron parrots.
Harry lets out a nervous laugh and says, "Good one, Gin."
Ginny beams. "So, what are your plans for tonight?" she asks again.
Harry shrugs. "Prolly go down to the pub in a little bit. Get a bite to eat."
"Neat. Do you two mind if I join you?"
"In that?" Ron croaks, just as Harry says, "You're more than welcome."
Ginny grins. "Just let me get my purse."
~
Okay, so maybe going to the pub dressed like she was out to prove something had been a bad idea, but it certainly wasn't her fault that three separate blokes had tried to pick her up in the first twenty minutes, nor was it her fault that her overprotective Neanderthal of a brother had rushed headlong into a fist fight with the first bloke who touched her arse.
Ginny can handle herself, after all, and a surreptitiously placed hex would have been far more effective. So what if they left after their first pints and Harry decided to go spend a quiet evening at home? Ginny has plenty of time; she can do this.
It won't be so bad. She can make Harry fall in love with her, no problem. She knows everything about him already, what he likes, what he hates. How hard can it be?
She slips into bed just after the sun sinks down in a sizzle past the horizon, flicks off the lamp and rolls over. Tomorrow is a new day, after all. It can't be any worse than today.
ii
Ron again, the moron. You'd think after her fit yesterday, he would learn to keep his breakfast ministrations down before it was even eight in the morning. Not that she should really expect much from a bloke who doesn't do his washing until his girlfriend refuses to step into his bedroom, but still, a little consideration isn't too much to ask.
Ginny throws back her covers, stomps her way into the kitchen to hear Ron mutter something about the Falcons game. She stops in the doorway, hands already on her hips, ready to growl and wishing she'd brought her wand out of her bedroom. Maybe she could go back to her room, teach Ron a lesson about waking up his sister on both of her days off in a row. He deserves it, after all. She needs her rest if she's going to win Harry back, and she is certainly not letting some twelve-foot-tall blonde with pointy ears get him, that's for damn -
"Hi, Ginny," says a voice off to her left. "Did we wake you?"
Ron lays the skillet he just pulled out from the cabinet down next to another bowl of eggs. Ginny spins towards Harry, a small smile already working its way onto her face. He's wearing yet another Molly Weasley-made jumper. The green makes his eyes shine darker than usual.
"Well, Ron did anyway," Ginny says with an offended glare aimed his direction. "Two days in a row, I might add." She looks back at Harry. "Harry, I know you like my Mum's sweaters, but don't you think you could mix it up a bit? Didn't she make you one with a Horntail on it?"
There's coffee percolating on the stove. The smell makes Ginny's chest swell, and she moves to pour herself a large mug. "Anyway, did you have a good night at home last night? I really just had no idea my outfit would attract so much -" Ginny pauses at the confused look on Harry's face. "Attention," she finishes slowly. "Wait." She turns quickly to Ron, hot coffee sloshing over the side of the mug. "You were talking about the Falcons game earlier?"
There's a sinking feeling weighing her stomach down, like the time she realized they had a potions' exam that she hadn't studied for, only much, much worse.
Harry answers, "Yeah," for Ron, adding, "we were thinking about catching it on the wireless, or maybe heading to the pub for a bit, after we catch a nap."
Ginny turns slowly back to Harry, stares at him. His glasses are crooked. "And why would you need to catch a nap? Also, the Falcons played yesterday. They won by thirty points."
"Ah, no it wasn't, Ginny. It's today. Are you feeling quite right?"
"No - I mean, yes, I'm feeling fine. But no, the game was yesterday. Saturday." She points towards the Cannons calendar.
"Um, Gin," Ron slowly says from behind, as if talking to a small child. "Today is Saturday."
Ginny glances at the calendar. "No, it's - oh." Saturday is not marked off, and she is certain, absolutely certain, that she put an X there before retiring for the evening. "But -" She feels her eyebrows draw together, glances down at herself, only to see that she's clad in the same Harpies T-shirt she woke up in the day before.
She backs away from the calendar. "Ginny," Ron says. "What's wrong with you?"
"What did you two do last night?" she demands. Her hand is wet and hot from the coffee; it's probably burnt. She should really put the mug down.
Ron casts a look at Harry before answering. "We had our first night out with Kingsley. It was wicked, really. I cast two spells and Harry cast one, and even - "
"Your first night out," Ginny interrupts. "Your first night out with the Aurors."
"Uh, yeah, that's what I said."
Ginny looks at the calendar again, glances at Harry and the 'H' on his sweater, at the eggs on the counter. "But that's impossible," she mutters.
Ron approaches her cautiously, like a third year approaching one of Hagrid's mad hybrid creations. He takes the coffee out of her grasp and sets the mug on the table. "Maybe you should go back to bed. I think you might actually still be asleep."
"I'm not tired," Ginny says. "I'm fine. I just - you were just -" She looks sharply at Harry. "You're not my boyfriend, are you?"
Harry's eyes go wide behind his stupid, crooked glasses. "Ah, N-no, I'm not."
"Right," Ginny mumbles. "Didn't think so."
Ron laughs. "Ginny, you must still be dreaming."
Ginny answers with a mirthless laugh of her own. "You're right," she agrees. "I am. Still dreaming." She crosses the room, arms folded over her chest. "I'll be heading back to my room now, yeah?"
In the hallway, she hears Ron declare, "She's mad," and Ginny scowls viciously.
~
Ginny has always considered herself a fairly positive person. Bright, fun, perky, even. Glass half full and all that. But trying to remain positive in the face of...whatever the hell seems to be happening is proving difficult. Yet another trip to the forest, and all she has for her trouble is wind-bitten cheeks and chapped lips. She checks the calendar one last time, and it can't be explained, not even with magic, but it's clear that today is the tomorrow that never actually happened. Ginny thinks back on the Queen's words from two days ago - or yesterday, depending on whose time clock you were going by. She has all the time in the world to get her Harry to love her again, but how on earth -
Elfin magic is completely different from wizard magic, older and stronger, not bound by the same physical laws. There is no way she will be able to break it, force Harry and Ron and probably everyone else she knows to remember the world as it was, not on her own, anyway. If Hermione were here, she'd know what to do, even if she thought Ginny was completely nuts. Of course, the way things were going, Ginny 's not so certain she isn't off her rocker.
She shakes herself. She needs a shower, and a new game plan, one that possibly involves research. She's going to get her life back. No matter what.
~
Come to think of it, Ginny kind of detests her life.
Somehow, she imagined going to the pub with Ron and Harry for a few pints would be enjoyable, would make Harry start whatever process he had to go through to remember he loved her again, but sitting in the dimly lit room, getting very slowly drunk with a stinging burnt hand and a what feels like a gaping hole in her chest is possibly more than she can handle right now.
She opts for jeans and a pullover this time around, and though Harry's eyes don't pop out of his head at the sight of her, no fistfights start, not even after three hours, which feels like headway. Or, it should.
The problem is.... well, the problem is that Ginny doesn't know how to act around Harry. For the past two years she's been his girlfriend. She's been in love with him, and he with her. But in his reality, he's not in love with her. He doesn't look at her as anything more than his best friend's little sister. It's clear he likes her well enough: he smiles at her, asks questions like he's interested, seems to know all about her spot on the Quidditch team and teases her with familiarity when she orders a lemon wedge with her pint.
He's still fundamentally Harry. Still sticks his tongue between his teeth when he's concentrating, and talks with his hands when he gets excited. Still needlessly straightens his glasses and smells the same: like sandalwood and sweat. But he doesn't hold her hand, or lean over and brush the hair out from her eyes. He doesn't look at her as if he -
"You okay, Ginny? You look a little sad." She looks at Harry, at the concern in his eyes and gives a shaky smile.
She nods and blinks quickly, taking a sip from her ale. There's an ache deep in her stomach. How is it possible to miss someone who's sitting right in front of you?
iii
She's expecting it this time, what sounds like a marching band rumbling from the kitchen as pots and pans are shoved around. She doesn't need to look down to know she's sporting an oversized Harpies shirt, nor does she need to go down the hall to see Harry's dark green pullover and Ron's attempts at breakfast for the day.
For Today.
Again.
~
Though she knows it will be entirely useless, she can't let go of the hope that she can find the Queen and promise she's learned her lesson; she'll plant whole rows of magical white roses for her, if she'd just let Ginny have her life back. Hell, Ginny thinks she'd be willing to give up Quidditch and take up with Neville, study Herbology until her thumbs literally turn green, if Harry would remember her, really remember her.
So, yes, she knows sitting on the hard, cold forest floor with a dead rose clutched in her hand talking at the trees is futile, and possibly means she should give be given a corner room with a view next to Lockhart in St. Mungo's ward for the disturbingly insane, but she doesn't really know what else to do, and hey, it's not as if she's in a rush.
~
Harry and Ron are puttering around the kitchen when she arrives home. Her lips are chapped and her hair wind-blown. She's tired, and it's not a regular sort of tired, but weary, bone-deep exhaustion, like she's been running non-stop and there's no end in sight.
"Hi, Ginny," Harry says when his eyes land on her. Again, he's wearing the same pullover, dark green and hand knit, and Ginny's really starting to hate it. His hair sticks straight up in back, from the nap Ginny knows he took, though she hasn't spoken to him yet today. Not really. Not technically.
"Hello, baby sister," Ron greets happily when he sees her. "What were you up to today?"
"Ah," Ginny hedges. She knows her cheeks must be red from the cold. "Playing Quidditch," she eventually lies.
"You'd think you'd get enough of that during practice."
"Doubtful," Harry says, and Ginny just gives a mirthless laugh, says, "Yeah, you'd think I would."
"Anyway," Ron says, "we're going to the pub for some dinner. You want t'come?"
"Nah. I'm not really up to it tonight."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, Ron. Thanks though. You two have fun."
"Okay." He steps up in front of her, brushes a kiss along her forehead.
Ginny pulls back, eyes him. Harry's watching from his spot near the stove. "What was that for?"
Ron shrugs, and looks a little embarrassed, the tips of ears going pink. "You just look a little sad, is all. Just tryin' to make you feel better." He gives her a mock frown. "Don't expect it too often."
Ginny blinks back wetness and smiles at him. "I wouldn't dream of it," she promises, before lifting up and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you," she whispers. "Now you two, go," she orders, louder. "Have manly fun."
Harry gives her a small smile. Ginny watches him walk away, the slight twist of his shoulders and his slate-black hair. She sighs. What she needs to do, she decides, is get really, really drunk.
~
The Muggle club is crowded, smack dab in the middle of London, and music's throbbing under everything, making her teeth ache. It's all chrome and glass, with big leather couches shoved into corners. The type of place that's easy to get lost in, which is...just about perfect.
The girl behind the bar smiles prettily at Ginny when she slides onto a stool. "What can I get for you, love?"
Ginny frowns, eyes sweeping the rows of liquor behind the bar until she finally just settles on, "Something strong, please."
"One of those days, yeah?" the woman says, a knowing smile playing around her lips.
"You don't know the half of it."
"I've got the cure for that, I think." A tumbler, filled three fingers high with something clear and certainly vile finds it way in front of Ginny. She throws it back, and there's a satisfying burn in stomach. Ginny pushes the glass back. "Another, please."
Three shots in, and Ginny's feeling good and buzzed. Her lips are just this side of numb, and the music twirls through her body, moving it along.
Four shots in, and she's on the dance floor, bumping and grinding in a sea smelling of sweat and jasmine.
She's laughing when she spots him smiling at her. He's tall with narrow shoulders and dark, dark hair, and his voice, when he offers to buy her a drink, is smooth and slow like honey. They end up on a couch together, the leather sticky against her thighs. There's an ache in her belly, and her vision is blurry at the edges, gone soft from booze and the heat of the club.
She thinks about Harry, about his eyes when he smiles at her and his crooked glasses, his white teeth and the way he always smells the same. She lets this bloke - Mark, he said his name was - with his bright eyes and his pink tongue, push her against the couch. She closes her eyes when he kisses her and touches the skin of her stomach with cold, calloused hands.
It's after two before Ginny Apparates home on shaky legs, landing with a pop in the middle of the front room. Ron's snores greet her immediately, loud and wet sounding, and Harry's sitting in a chair next to the fireplace, looking sleepy but still awake.
"What are you doing here?" Ginny slurs, already unbuttoning her coat.
Harry glares blearily up at her from beneath the dark hair fallen in his eyes. "Well, I was waiting for you."
"Why?"
"We got back late and you weren't here. Just wanted to make certain you weren't...run over by an angry hippogriff or something."
Ginny peels off her coat and lets it puddle on the floor, watching smugly as Harry's eyes go wide. She knows how she looks, sweaty and probably thoroughly kissed, with what feels like a bruise in the shape of lips along her collarbone.
"Where -" Harry swallows. "Where were you?"
Shrugging her shoulders, Ginny wobbles her way into the kitchen. Water sounds just about perfect right now.
Harry's up and behind her in a flash. "Where were you?" he demands again, his voice quiet so as not to wake Ron from his slobbery slumber on the couch.
Ginny gulps down the cold water, both hands clutched around the glass, and leans her hips against the counter. She shrugs again. "I was out."
"I thought you said you were tired."
"Harry." Ginny frowns at him, putting down the glass. "What are even doing here? You have a flat of your own, don't you?"
Looking offended, Harry takes a step back. "We were worried about you," he explains.
Ginny's quiet, listening to Ron's snores. "Ron sounds really worried."
"He was. He just fell asleep."
"I'm a big girl."
"I'm well aware. But you looked sad when we left, and then you weren't here, so we decided to stay up and wait for you. Ron fell asleep, but I just decided to - "
"That's very sweet of you, Harry, but as you can see, I'm perfectly fine."
"You look perfectly fine," Harry comments dryly, watching as she shoves away from the counter to stagger towards her bedroom.
Ginny whips shakily around at her door to find him right behind her. "Don't you dare judge me, Harry Potter."
"I'm not," Harry whispers furiously. "I'm just -" He sighs and scratches the back of his head. "You looked sad, and now you come home pissed, and it's - I just wanted to make certain you were all right."
"You're not my brother."
"I know that, but I am your friend, and I was concerned. Because, you know." He gestures. "That what friends do."
Ginny lets out a bitter laugh. "Heh, friends. You know what friends do, Harry? They, they remember things, like birthdays and favourite foods and - "
"I remember your birthday - "
"And favourite colors, and they remember their girlfriends. But you," she screeches, barreling along despite the total confusion written on Harry's face, and jabbing a finger at him. "You just go and forget, like it was that easy. You, you - well, you're a total arse, that's what you are. Do you know how hard this has been? Do you? Watching you and wanting you and you don't even remember anything about me." She points a shaky finger at him. "Well, screw you, Harry Potter. I don't need you!"
She slams the door in his face. The last thing she sees just before it clicks shut are his eyes, soft and green behind his glasses, rounded with shock.
Digging in the second drawer of her dresser, Ginny pulls out a small, dark green sweater. She curls up with it on her bed, her nose pressed into its cables, and falls asleep, dizzy, with tears in her eyes.
continue to part two