The Spatula

This story was written a year ago. It was writen in response to the modern axiom never change yourself for your partner. I am somewhat disconcerted and embarrassed to discover that my writing ability has declined.


The couch almost swallowed her whole. In fact, if it were not known by the frequent visitors to the Grangers' house that it was always occupied, she might have been sat on.

The book shot out of Hermione's fingers and sailed across the room to fall with a sickening thud. Even before she saw the irate woman before her she winced at the sound of pages being bent.


Ginny towered above her like a goddess of fire. She threw her hands into the air and an animalistic embodiment of irritation, half-groan and half whine, tore from her mouth. Her fingers descended slowly and came to roost in her hair, where her hands worried and pulled. There was a light in her eye.

"How do you put up with him? Oh, I absolutely cannot stand him! Do you know where he put the spatula today? In—the—cupboard—next—to—the wooden spoons! The wooden spoons! Again! And don't get me started on the washing of the pots – he always rinses the damn things and I never know if they're clean or not!

"And do you know what else?"

Her voice was calmer now, a deathly murmur. "I opened the cupboard just now, and my calla lily plates fell out and smashed! EVETY FUCKING ONE OF THEM! MY FAVORITE SET! I am utterly convinced he does it on purpose! He has all the money in the world. He doesn't understand that when things break beyond reparo, not everyone can go out and buy a new one! And he's ever so diplomatic. He says 'Well, we don't need good plates'. I have had enough with his arrogant little arse!"

Ginny collapsed onto the couch, shivering. Hermione waited.

"He should accept me the way I am,' she whispered. 'He wants to craft an entirely new 'Ginerva Weasly v2'. Sometimes I wonder if he'd be happier with an animated statue. He doesn't help. Won't talk about where the spatula should go. He doesn't understand."

She laughed.

"Maybe all he hears from my mouth is gobbledegook, or mermish?"

After a long silence, Hermione hesitantly asked a question.

"Why are you marrying him?"

Ginny peered through her fringe. "Because it is the right thing to do."

Her brown eyes returned to the floor and she covered her face in her hands.

"Do you know when you decided?"



"I do," said Hermione, and Ginny sighed.

"You didn't decide, Ginny. The vultures waiting to plan your wedding caught you right out of school. They are intelligent people, Ginny. They know how to prey on your emotions and desires. They know how to manipulate and create them, as well. They are clever salesmen that sold you a marriage. And the public and the press, they helped manipulate you too. Marrying Harry was in your thoughts, and they encouraged you and told you that it was the right thing to do. They agreed with your thoughts, and solidified your decisions for you. You and Harry won't change for one another because you don't think it's worth it. You don't want your marriage to work."

Ginny hissed and sprang from her seat.

"I didn't ask for a fucking councillor," she snapped, and stormed out the front door.

Hermione sighed and shook her head slowly, her mouth set in a thin line. She scrambled out of her chair and retrieved the book.

Eight pages later, the doorbell rang. Hermione climbed out of her chair, noted the page number, and closed the book.

It was Ginny, who was bedraggled and weary.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," she said. "I wanted you to just tell me I was right, and that Harry was an evil basted but—you're right and I—"

Ginny's breath hitched, and Hermione pulled her into a hug and shut the door behind them.

"I don't know what to do," whispered Ginny. "If we cancelled – the press would have a field day. I can't do that to Harry. I – I just don't know."

"That's okay," Hermione murmured. "It's okay not to know. Everything will be alright."

Ginny nodded and sniffed.

"Thank you, Hermione."