While writing this story, I realized several things. I'm not the best fiction writer in the world, this story jumps a bit, is vague in some places, and too descriptive in others, and overall is an…. Interesting read. I hope you will find this as good a read as I did a write, but I should still explain it. This is set roughly a year after the epilogue, but it's written much like a memoir, or The Titanic. It may jump to the present in some parts, but for the most part all of the actions and adventures taking place(as far as I can tell) will happen in the past, the years between the end of the Battle of Hogwarts, and the epilogue. It will focus mostly on Harry's and Ginny's relationship(and the shocking twist that will take. DUN DUN DUUUUUN), but it is not exclusive to them. Naturally, a story with two/three characters can only last so long, so it will take a good deal of relationships outside the main two into consideration. Also, this is my first fanfiction, so I hope you enjoy. Depending on responses, I'll probably write more, sporadically until the turn-out demands regularity.
Everyone assumes our relationship is perfect. Between our children, his fame, and my acting, it's understandable why people think so, but this is certainly not the case. I'm not particularly unhappy, and Harry is ecstatic, continuously showing his affection with a pair of turtle doves appearing out of nowhere, or a bouquet he shoots from his wand. The problem with our relationship, I find, is simply that I can't feel happy with him. Our relationship is almost too story-book amazing. It's disgusting.
Whether in muggle company(at the request of his troll of a cousin), or at home in our own slices of England, a common question most asked us was our relationship became what it was today. The answer never changed: dragging me by the waist to rest my head on his shoulder, Harry would recount our school days and his summers at The Burrow, describing a slow and gradual growth that would turn into love. After his defeat of Voldemort(or after" his tour in the Middle East," he would tell muggles), we were free of the danger and began to go out without restraint or confusion. For our first official date, we walked along the beach, visiting the "grave of a loved one(Dobby)," talking through our times apart. At the end of it, we laid by a fire on the beach, and he told me that his love for everyone, especially me, was what helped see him through everything.
While I smiled and played the role of loving wife for our company, anyone looking at me would have noticed the lack of luster in my eyes. Thankfully, no one ever looked at the arm candy of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. My version is much less public, and lacks the frilly romance Harry added onto his. After the battle of Hogwarts, the mourning, and the celebrations, every dark thought, shred of despair, and hint of desperation had dissipated. Every aspect of life became richer, and every moment in life became something worth celebrating. Lost in that reverie, Harry and I embraced each other with a love and passion that seemed almost impossible for people so young. We agreed to a date, an official date, a week after everything had died down and something resembling normal.
Two months later, we met at Shell Cottage for a romantic stroll along the beach, when the sun was half way hidden by the horizon. Having spent those two months together at The Burrow, there was no major demand to ask each other what we'd been up to. There was no need to speak of pasts that entangled each other like the Diary did my heart. No real need presented itself to converse about anything at all, and our walk quickly took on the unmistakable undertones of boredom. We gabbed a little about nothing in particular; how we'd been holding up since the deaths, all the publicity he'd gotten since the Downfall, the major changes in the wizarding world that had died down since then, and even the appointment of the new headmaster. The conversation topics dwindled until we reached a few trees and decided to light a fire to protect ourselves from the chilling creep of night. Without a wand, Harry had tried in vain to ignite the branches by rubbing them together, a technique I'd never heard of. Despite his growing agitation, Harry refused to use magic, his cheeks growing a bright red, silently cursing himself for being stupid enough to forget his wand at the cottage. While he focused on the sticks, I asked to take over the task, thinking a different stick would do the trick. I walked behind a tree and pulled out my wand, hoping he hadn't noticed, and returned to rub it gently against another I'd picked. Thanking all the stars in heaven for our silent spell lessons, I lit a fire within an instant, and we sat around it, holding hands in silence.
The moment came when Harry decided to deliver his line, with all the eloquence and finesse of a nut with the tongue-tying curse put on him. " Y'know, Ginny…. It wasn't… what I'm trying to say is that it wasn't easy…. Being away from you and all. I worried about you every time I wasn't worried about being caught, and it only made me miss you. I really really wanted to bring you along, but you know that, and…. Well, y'know? You know where I'm coming from? Probably not. What I mean to say is this: if it wasn't for how much I love you, and everyone in the wizarding world, I don't know how I would have done what I did."
It was romantic, nervous, and sweet of him. It touched me to know that, to know that I was special to him, and at that moment, I'd honestly believed I'd found the man I was destined to be with, but that moment didn't last long before he decided to add more.
"Ginny, I've never felt this way about anyone before. Not even Ron. It's like part of me just wants to take everything of you into myself, and become better for it. Losing my parents, Sirius, Dumbledore, and everyone else…. No matter how much those events hurt, I realized that I need you with me, to help get through whatever time has to throw at me."
I can think of a couple million girls who'd go weak in the knees at such words, coming from the very man who saved all of England, maybe even the world. Unfortunately for him, I wasn't one of those girls. His words were romantic, to say the least, but there was something so disconcerting about them. Being compared to my older brother, as bad as that is, wasn't the worst of it, though. That his happiness rested on my proximity seemed almost too much. If he were to remain safe, I had to be with him 24/7, practically surrendering my independence, demoting me to nothing more than a cane for his broken psyche. The prospect was daunting, to say the least.
I also had a little difficulty understanding the "taking me into him" thing. "I want to be part of you" or something of that ilk was a popular romance line in my mum's terrible love stories, and even when the witches had made it to that part, at the end of the day they were still two separate entities, functioning as individuals with a deep love and emotional dependency that bordered on the fanatical. What he suggested seemed to be a surrendering of everything that makes him Harry, and me Ginny, becoming a blob of action and conscience relying completely on each other to have any semblance of life. Submissiveness isn't my strong suit, and I doubted that this fact would ever change; weak women never made it to be Weasleys. Strength was in my blood, going as far back as our red hair, blue eyes, or freckles. My mother blew Bellatrix Lestrange to pieces on the battlefield, our great aunt Muriel, in her ripe old age, managed to be one of the most cunning and dangerous women in the world, and somewhere down the line, the legend of one great matriarch or another who'd wrestled a troll into submission was a famous story in the family and a local legend.
My mind tumbled through these ideas, my face betraying nothing as pity and rage fought sword and shield against one another. My anger didn't shock me at all. The pity was shocking. The shock was confusing. The confusion was agonizing. The list goes on, and while pity and anger warred between themselves, these lesser emotions were in the peanut gallery, cheering them on.
All of this was lost to Harry, who continued to stare into my eyes, looking for something. In his bottle green eyes stirred something, something growing bigger and more powerful the more I stared. Emboldened by the growing power inside him, Harry decided to strike. It was not the quick and lithe attack of a Jaguar. His approach was slow and deliberate, like a snake boa coiling itself around a struggling rabbit. He lifted his hand from mine, resting it on the back of my neck, his sweaty palms struggling for grip. Angling himself accordingly, he pulled me closer, and our lips met in a rough kiss, clearly without practice or technique, almost bestial in its simplicity, and savage in its strength. His tongue slid into my mouth, where they met and wrestled for dominance, as is the case in such situations. It lasted almost two minutes, and when we separated, a ring of saliva covered three inches of skin around my mouth, while some on my skin and cheeks had been rubbed raw by his coarse and unkempt beard.
Overall, it wasn't the best kiss of my life, but it was certainly better than Dean, but not by much. Pulling away, we looked each other in the eye, him with that gooey look of absolute devotion, and me with stark curiosity. In his eyes was something more than lust, love, belonging, protection, or anything to expect after kissing the woman you love. There was something more…. More than Harry. It was fleeting, but a flash of crimson appeared deep in those green eyes, gone before Ginny could properly wonder about its existence.
My curiosity faded, heading back to the cottage to Apparate back to the burrow shortly after the kiss. Hermione would pester me for details, which I'd happily confess in the gooey, love-struck way of teenage girls, despite how hopelessly fake they were. Well after midnight, when mum had shooed her away, I laid in my bed, staring at the ceiling, conscious of the fact that Harry laid jut feet above me. And feeling nothing about that. Instead, my mind wandered to the flash of crimson, ultimately dismissing it as the fire's reflection on his glasses. With that in mind, I rolled over, feeling a little put-off by a simple trick of the light.