Always and Never

It's funny, she thinks, the things we remember and those we forget. She can't, for example, recall what she ate for breakfast last week. She can't recite the causes for any of the goblin rebellions, or the name of the 264^th Minister of Magic.

But today, sitting in the kitchen of the Burrow, sipping at a mug of hot cocoa, Ginny Weasley can remember being seated in that chair across the old scrubbed wood table, and announcing that when she grew up, she was going to be a princess.

There was nothing funny about it, she remembers thinking defiantly, despite the stifled grins and raised eyebrows that, even at seven, she'd been old enough to notice. It was a career choice, she'd sniffed, tossing long auburn pigtails over a shoulder and folding both arms over her chest.

`And a fine one, at that,' her father'd replied, mouth twitching at the corners.

`You'd make a beautiful princess, Gin,' Charlie had said.

`Technically, princesses only exist in Muggle cultures…' Percy'd interjected, launching into a recitation of last term's scintillating Muggle Studies lesson.

`I heard all princesses married frogs,' Fred had said, ignoring him.

`And they sleep with melons beneath their mattresses,' George had nodded solemnly.

Ron had, as usual, rolled his eyes, poking at the meat on his plate with a fork, and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, `stupid girls.'

But he'd also thrust a crown constructed of parchment and Spell-O-Tape into her hands the next morning, offering to play Castles and Dragons.

He sits across from her now, hair sticking out at odd angles, skin paler than usual, making his freckles stand out, his face appear drawn, almost gaunt. She wants to remind him of that supper from years ago, maybe make some comment as to how foolish she'd been. Make him laugh, or smile, at least, with the remembrance of the twins' jokes, tease him for his willingness to participate in a `Girls' Game' for fear of hurting her feelings.

But that would mean talking about Percy. And that would only remind them how drastically things have changed in the time since.

And anyway, how can she poke fun at herself for wanting to be a princess then, when really, nothing's changed?

*

The thing about fairy tales is they're only ever that: tales. There is nothing real about them, nothing remotely true to life. It doesn't matter that she wants them to be. It doesn't matter that she'd picked her handsome prince by the age of ten.

It simply doesn't matter.

Because in this life, this real life, where nothing is perfect and every move is a risk more dangerous than the last, things go wrong. Darkness spreads, wars are fought, families torn apart. Love proves fickle.

She'd planned it in her mind, just as Percy had planned his career before his first year at Hogwarts had ever begun. Harry Potter, her knight in shining armor. Harry Potter, her handsome prince. Harry Potter, with his dark hair and broken glasses, who'd given her a tentative smile when he'd visited that first summer. Harry Potter, who'd saved her from Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets.

They went wonderfully together, everyone said it. “So much like Lily and James.”

And he would defeat Voldemort, and she would be there waiting, and they would live Happily Ever After as his parents had never gotten the chance to do. The End.

But the end had already come, before they'd hardly made it to the beginning.

And yet, somehow, he can sit across the room, there, next to her, and not feel broken. Oh, he's tired, there's no doubt about that. He's sore, needs rest. The scars on his face and arms are still visible, but he doesn't hurt. He doesn't feel what Ginny feels. He doesn't seem as though he's lost something. His ache is another sort, entirely, one that she finds she can't quite understand.

She looks at Ron, absentmindedly swirling the dregs at the bottom of his teacup, and back at them, the urge to ask the question swelling until she can hold it back no longer. “Doesn't it bother you?”

His head is propped on a palm and he glances up, surprised, almost as if he'd forgotten she was there. “Hmm?”

She nods in their direction slightly and lowers her voice, though she doubts they'd notice even if they weren't so busy murmuring with Remus in the corner. “Them.” Together.

He rubs at his face tiredly. “What?”

“Don't they bother you?”

A pause. His brow furrows, just a little, just enough. “Maybe a bit, at first.”

“But it doesn't - They don't - Not anymore? Not at all?”

“Gin,” he sets the cup down, looking so much older than she remembers, “look at them.”

So she does. And they're not touching, not even sitting that closely together, but it's suddenly, painfully, clear.

It's in the way she's leaning into him, as if she doesn't want to miss a single word he says. It's in the way he glances over every few moments, seeing her nodding, reassuring himself that she agrees. In the way he watches her while she speaks, brow knit in concentration, like he truly values her opinion. Like he never looked at Ginny.

Like he loves her.

He loves Hermione.

And she loves him back.

Ron sighs, pushing a hand through his hair. “You see it, too.”

It's more a statement than a question and she turns away, staring into her mug instead, not answering. Because answering would be acknowledging. Answering would be admitting to Ron, to herself, that they'll never be together. That she'll never be with him.

But even if she doesn't answer, even if she pretends not to have heard him, no matter how hard she concentrates on the marshmallows in her cocoa, she can't ignore the way that Harry brushes a hand over the light scar on Hermione's collarbone from…Ginny doesn't even know. And that's part of the problem. She's never known. It's always - always - been Harry and Hermione. Harry and Hermione learning new spells together. Harry and Hermione doing research in the library. Harry and Hermione and, occasionally, Ron, going out, having adventures, ridding the world of Voldemort. Never a “Ginny, would you like to come?” never a “Ginny, we need you.” Ginny, I need you.

Never.

He doesn't trust her with his secrets, with the knowledge of where he's going and what he's doing. He doesn't trust her with his life.

He trusts Hermione.

And that's what it all comes down to, isn't it?

There's always been a fairy tale in the works.

And maybe it's not exactly normal. Maybe it's not as conventional a story as most.

But watching them now, she sees what she's never allowed herself to see, before. The hero and heroine have already been cast. From the time when they were eleven and on the train to eighteen and on the run. Regardless of how many dates Hermione went on with other blokes, or how many girls fancied Harry, it always comes back to the two of them. Always.

It's not that there isn't a fairy tale.

It is that, all these years, Ginny's been looking for something in a place that isn't hers to look. She isn't the princess; not in this story. Not with this prince. Hers was the lead-up, the relationship meant to prepare him for something better. Something more than mere snogging or physical attraction.

Ginny is minor. A supporting role. No more than five letters on the ending credits of one of those “movies” they watched in Muggle Studies.

And though it may be odd to think of herself as so inconsequential...it doesn't feel wrong. It doesn't feel right, certainly not. She firmly maintains that she would have been good for Harry Potter. But she can't watch them, can't see how he looks at Hermione, and honestly say that it should be any other way.

It's like a slap in the face, the realization. Like being hit in the stomach with a bludger when it's least expected, the way it knocks the wind out of her, or maybe the cold, sick shock that accompanies a sip of Firewhiskey thought to be butterbeer.

She, Ginny Weasley, was never a part of the Happily Ever After.

It was always Harry and Hermione.

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