Senses
Hearing:
"Ginny, I want to talk to you," Harry says, hoping his deep breath dispels some of the trembling uncertainty in his voice, as he steps into their dining room. Sunlight is pouring through the arched window, adding a high gloss to the antique furniture and glinting blindingly from the facets of the ornate chandelier. His wife is giving instruction to one of their house elves - freed, of course - while a clipboard hovers in midair, quill racing across it without a writer. Over on the enormous sideboard, there is a chorus of metallic rings and rattles, as the silver polishes itself.
"Of course, sweetheart," she says automatically, eying the clipboard critically. A swirl of her index finger sets the quill in motion again. "But the Wizengamot convenes in fifteen minutes. It'll take you at least that long to get through the traffic in the Atrium."
"It can wait."
Something in his tone snags her attention now, and she turns more fully towards him, dismissing the elf.
"Is something wrong? Was it the quiche? That was a new recipe, but Hannah recommended it, and she's such a good cook that - "
"Ginny!" He almost-shouts, interrupting, and the name echoes cavernously off of the vaulted ceiling. She stops speaking, wide-eyed, and waits. "Have I really been that much of a monster?"
"A monster?" She doesn't understand, and lets out a little laugh, confused. "Of course not, Harry. What are you - ?"
"We haven't spoken in three days, except for your telling me where we're supposed to be when. And when I finally come in to talk to you about something, you immediately assume I have a complaint about lunch?"
She is flustered, and she grips the back of a dining chair, absently running her fingers along its carven back.
"I'm sorry. I - "
"For God's sake, Ginny! Stop apologizing for every bloody thing!"
She freezes, stricken. He can see the muscles in her slender neck convulse, as she swallows, struggling for control. His hands are shaking, and he tucks them away in his pockets, unnerved by how deranged and desperate he sounds, wondering if he will actually be able to go through with his plan.
"What happened to you?" he asks, and his voice is a hoarse whisper, scraping at his tongue and palate on its way out.
"Happened to me?" She echoes him with incredulity. "Harry, it's the Equinox. You know the Wizengamot won't meet again until Midsummer. They'll all - "
"Sod the Wizengamot!"
"Harry, it's irresponsible…" but her last word trails off, and is nearly incomprehensible, as if her reasoning is half-hearted and without teeth. He has disconcerted her badly.
"You used…" he begins, smiling crookedly at her, and then stopping as his voice cracks on the word. He starts over. "You used to - you were this spunky little thing, once you finally stopped being Petrified around me. It's what drew me to you at first. You'd seen me at my worst, and liked me anyway. You gave as good as you got - how could you not, growing up with Fred and George and Ron? You used to tell me when I was being a prat. We were - we - remember that first flat we lived in? Do you remember the night when that bloke's bathtub overflowed, and leaked all over our ceiling? We thought we'd just gotten it under control, when my spell overloaded, and all that soggy paperboard stuff came down on top of us - and we just stood there, drenched, laughing…"
"You were cursing a blue streak," Ginny corrects him dryly, and then sighs. "Harry, why would you want to remember that rat hole? I hated it."
He sighs. She is missing his point.
"It was - it was simpler then. We were just Harry and Ginny then. You and me against the world. No political aspirations, no life in the public eye - "
"You've always been in the public eye."
"But we used to tell the Prophet it could sod off. Don't you remember that? Remember the night we got drunk and jumped in the fountain?"
"The night we got engaged," Ginny says dully. "It was on the front page. I was so embarrassed."
"But you weren't sorry you did it, were you? Were you?" he prods.
"Not then," she admits, drawing her words out grudgingly.
"So what happened to us?"
"Because we don't jump into fountains anymore? Because we wanted to live in a nice country house, instead of in a walk-up tenement? We grew up, Harry." There is the barest hint of acid in her voice.
Harry throws his hands up into the air in exasperation, and walks in a small circle to vent excess energy. The heels of his shoes clump hollowly on the polished wooden floor.
"I'm not saying we should run around acting ridiculous. I'm saying we used to live life on our own terms, not anyone else's. We didn't worry about what anyone said; we didn't worry about what headline the Prophet was going to print next."
"The public's perception of you is important, Harry. You may not have asked for it, but you are the Boy Who Lived, and you always will be. As a symbol - "
"I'm not a bloody symbol, Ginny! I'm a man!" The last sentence actually is a shout now, and the panes in the picture window rattle just a bit. "We may have grown up, but somewhere along the line, you became my manager - my - my PR person - and you stopped being my wife."
That stings her, and she is blinking back tears. Her hands are clenched so tightly around the top of the chair that her knuckles are white. Perversely, he is glad to see any kind of emotional reaction from her, even a negative one.
"I've always - "
"We painted James' nursery together, remember? Just us. I stepped in the paint tray, as I came off the ladder." Vague amusement tints his voice with warmth. And yet, the remembrance of past oneness pains him, makes the aching absence of it now all the more noticeable and agonizing. "It took us two hours of Scourgifying the new carpet to clean up the shoeprints."
"It was like a little Quidditch pitch," Ginny says dreamily, a wistful smile making her look even younger. "He had a mobile made out of Snitches."
"Last month, did you paint the parlor that color because you liked it, or because that was what the decorator said to do?"
"With all of the dark wood, she said that it would highlight the - " She stops abruptly, as she realizes what she's said. He presses his point.
"It's as if your goal is to make sure that people approve of us, that we dress and behave appropriately enough for the cover of Witch Weekly. It doesn't matter whether or not we're happy."
"I am happy. And I want you to be happy," she vehemently protests against his claim. "Aren't you happy?"
He makes himself meet her gaze, and when he doesn't speak up right away, he knows that she knows what his answer is.
"I'm not." His voice breaks a little on the words. He wants to stagger under the burden of the heavy, heavy silence that ensues, but he manages to remain upright.
She sucks in a sharp breath at the implications, and slumps over the chair, clearly using it as a crutch to keep herself from completely collapsing. She has always worked to stay fashionably thin, but here, she seems all shoulders and bony joints underneath her jersey dress, as exquisitely wrought and as breakable and fragile as an ice sculpture.
"What can I do?" She is grasping for a modicum of control. He half-expects her to begin scrawling notes on the clipboard.
"I don't know, Ginny. I don't think this is something that can be solved with a Floo call to the right people, or - or a consultation with - with some expert. You've - you've given me everything I've ever wanted, but - but not the things I needed."
"Why - why didn't you say something before?"
Frustration causes a swear word to bubble out from between his lips. Ginny appears to be studying the pattern in the expensive Oriental rug with intense interest. He can hear the high-pitched babble of the house elves bustling about the adjacent kitchen, cleaning up from lunch, with the rush of running water and the gentle clang of pots and pans meeting his ears.
"I've tried. I've lost count of how many times I've tried. Even today, when I first brought it up, you tried to hustle me off to the Council meeting."
"Well," she manages briskly, after a long sniff, blinking back tears. Her management mask is settling back into place; Harry can almost see it meld into the bone structure of her face. "Now, you've told me, and now I know. Now I can fix things. I'm glad we talked." She waits a bit, and then offers tentatively, "If you hurry - "
"I want a separation," he says quickly, the words falling over each other in his attempt to push them out before he loses his nerve. "I want to move out."
"But we've only just discussed - you haven't even given me a chance to - "
"I think it's too late for that, Gin." There is terrible solemnity in the short sentence. His voice is gentle, regretful, and he forces himself to maintain eye contact.
Her knees actually do buckle then, and he finds himself suddenly beside her, hooking his hands beneath her elbows, helping her to remain standing. He feels horrible, almost sickened by himself, like someone nasty and selfish, who has everything, and still cannot find it within him to appreciate it, to be happy. Ron's going to kill me, if Bill doesn't beat him to it, he thinks.
"Oh - oh, Merlin, I - I can't - I - " She is speaking in queer, catchy little gasps. One hand is splayed across her sternum, as if she is making sure her heart is still working.
"It's only a trial - only to - only to see - " he finds himself saying, even though he knows it is more than that. Finality is more than he can do to her right now, even if false hope is cruel. He is not sure she believes him anyway.
"Do - do you know what people are going to think… what - what they're going to say? What is this going to do to my family? To the children?"
Her singular possessive irritates Harry, as does the order in which she lists her concerns. He moves away from her.
"If you had only reversed the order of what you just said," he says, shaking his head. She has made him doubt his decision, but his determination flares anew. "`Your' family has been my family for over twenty years. Ron was the very first friend I ever had. If you think that I haven't thought about what this does to them, that I haven't agonized over this for months… then you really don't know me at all. And the children - they're the most important people in the world to me, and that isn't going to change. I plan to just as accessible and available to them as I always have been. I know - I know it's not going to be easy for them, but - but if we - if we make this amicable, as much as we can - then - "
"Is there someone else?" She asks, suddenly, and he stares at her like she has just sprouted a Snorkack's horn; it takes him a moment to realize what she means.
"No. No! There's no one else - there's never been anyone else." Hermione flashes through his mind briefly, and he thinks guiltily that what he said is, at least, mostly true. "It's not about that."
"I know - I understand - that - that with celebrity, it might be harder to - I mean, there would be opportunities…" Ginny's eyes are innocently wide; she sidles toward him, keeping her tone placating, trying to offer him forgiveness for uncommitted sins.
"Bloody hell, Ginny! You really are unbelievable! You would really rather think that of me, than shoulder any of the blame for this? Would it make you feel better if you could go crying to the Prophet about being the wronged wife?"
"Of course it wouldn't," she mutters, bracketing her forehead with one hand. "Nothing could make this any better. I just thought - " She seems to consider her options, whether or not her thoughts should be given voice. In the family room, there is a series of musical chimes indicating an incoming Floo call. They both ignore it. The distinctive crack of elf-magic snaps from the kitchen, as one of them goes to take a message.
"Tell me, Ginny, what did you think?" There is light sarcasm in his voice that he is not quite able to edit out fully. She takes a deep breath, seeming to gird herself up for what she is going to say next.
"Well, you seemed fine with everything - with the way things were - until - until Ron and Hermione - "
"You think that Hermione and I - ?" The righteous indignation in his tone is believable, although her words do hit him a little too close to home. He has seen Hermione only twice since Christmas, and both times the visits were awkwardly and carefully cordial. Ron had been easier; Harry had apologized for his behavior on Christmas Eve, and the two best mates had been able to nimbly avoid any further use of their marriages as topics of conversation.
"No. I don't think you'd do that to Ron," she says pointedly, making sure Harry realizes that she did not say, I don't think you'd do that to me. "But I do think you might have talked to Hermione - you two have always been as thick as Slytherins - and maybe together, both of you realized what a perfectly brilliant idea it was to sever ties with these terrible Weasley spouses once and for all." Bitterness drips thickly from her voice like venom.
"Ginny - "
"Did you talk to her about it - about us - before it ever even occurred to you to let me know that something was wrong?"
"I - " Her eyes are piercing, demanding the truth, and Harry can't help but think that she does deserve that, at least. "Yes," he finally sighs.
"Get out." The ultimatum comes before the sibilance of his admission has even died in the acoustics of the room. Her words are quick, sharp, fired at him like two expertly aimed projectiles.
"Oh, I'm going," he assures her, his temper flaring up to match hers. "But - "
"Yes?" She arches her eyebrows impersonally, and Harry suddenly understands what Ron had said at Christmas about Hermione's business-like manner with him.
"Hermione had nothing to do with any of this. This is our mess, our failure. No blame needs to be placed on her - or on anyone else. I just want to make sure you understand that."
"You always do look out for her, don't you?" Ginny's statement is acrid, and Harry feels his nostrils flare, as he meets her gaze evenly. Perhaps he deserves that, but he has had enough. He feels a sudden and nearly overwhelming urge to wash away his problems with Firewhiskey.
"I'll Owl you about letting the kids know - Merlin knows we'll owe them a face-to-face explanation - and I'll send Dobby to get my things," he says shortly, turning on one heel and making for the Apparation point at their front gate. As he crosses the threshold, he hears one small, harsh sob, obviously torn from his wife against her will. There is an almost infinitesimal check in his gait; his eyes close briefly, as his stomach clenches in self-recrimination and loathing.
He is nearly down the front path, when he hears the sound of something - several somethings - shattering in quick, explosive succession. He wonders if it is their wedding china. A kind of wistful satisfaction wells up in him then, as he remembers the firebrand that Ginny used to be.
There's my girl.
***
Harry has lost track of exactly how long he has been sitting there, crunched into half a person - feeling like half a person - elbows on knees, forehead resting on the smooth, flat wooden back of the pew in front of him. The cool, gray interior of the church is soothing; the silence so intense and total that it is nearly audible. It seems to coat his skin like a tangible presence.
"Are you all right?" The voice, with a kind of muted resonance there in the empty church, surprises him. He jolts noticeably, and casts a wary look over one shoulder. Recognizing the voice and verifying its owner's identity does not help him relax.
"For now," he hedges, and sits up, scooting further down the empty pew, allowing his father-in-law to take a seat.
"I'm not here to cast any Unforgivables, Harry," Arthur chuckles slightly, but there is regret lurking beneath. He leans into the corner of the pew, and stretches his other arm along the back. The wood creaks in protest at its joints.
"Did - did Ginny tell you - ?" Harry swallows noisily, almost afraid to hear the accusations and recriminations that are surely coming from the man he has long looked on as a father.
"Not in so many words. She came barreling through the Floo with Lily, all soot and tears, collared Molly…" The older man mimes tackling someone. "…and then Silencioed the kitchen. She was - she was pretty much hysterical, Harry. Nothing she said even sounded like English, even before the spell went up."
Harry understands what Arthur is doing then. He is giving Harry the opportunity to give his side of the story, to explain things without fear of bias.
"Who has Lily?" He asks first.
"She's with George."
Harry inclines his head a bit in acknowledgment, then clears his throat. The sound bounces around the house of worship, and Harry fixes his gaze on the flickering candles scattered throughout, hoping to find some kind of inspiration. Colored light, dyed from its journey through the stained glass windows, is splashed about the stone floor.
The filtered sound of outside traffic barely reaches them; Harry ponders with a kind of detached amazement that people are still going about their business, absolutely ignorant of the state of his marriage, but knows that it can't last. He wonders if he could just stay in here forever. Sanctuary! He thinks of the Hunchback in the old story. Despite his careless front to Ginny, he is aware of his status as a "hero" and role model, and he has consciously striven to live up to it. He feels as if he is letting everyone down in one grand and dramatic gesture. At least I'm efficient, he thinks grimly.
"I'm moving out," he offers abruptly, and then waits, not knowing what else to say. He is surprised by how much it hurts. Arthur sighs and nods, as if Harry has given him confirmation. "I'm sorry. I know this - I - it makes it hard - I never wanted to hurt Ginny, but there was - it had gone on long enough. We're like strangers… or - or employer and staff. I - I think it's really over." Again, he is caught off guard by the physical pain the admission brings him, like a fist in his gut.
"I can't think how I - how I misjudged everything so badly, how it - we were happy once." He turns almost pleading eyes to the Weasley patriarch, as if he needs someone to validate it, to prove that he has not, in fact, imagined his erstwhile ease with Ginny. "How can I not pinpoint when it was lost? Why didn't I realize it when it happened? Didn't I miss it? Or did I never even have it in the first place - just an illusion?"
"Ginny was ten when she met you at King's Cross," Arthur says. "She was already eager to go to Hogwarts because of her brothers, but - but after she met you, it was all she talked about." Harry shifts in the pew, uncomfortably. Ginny's schoolgirl-dream-come-true has been a frequent topic at Weasley gatherings. "Molly was thrilled when you and Ron became friends - I think, even then, she was hoping…" He sighs gustily. "I'm not saying that you didn't - or don't - love Ginny. I think you did - maybe still do, on some level. But ever since you were introduced to the wizarding world, you've had to shoulder all these expectations… and you've always fulfilled them to everyone's highest standards. Falling in love with Ginny was expected of you…marrying her was expected of you." He lifts his shoulders slightly in a voila gesture. "And so you did. Got rid of Voldemort, married your best mate's sister, and everything's wrapped up all nice and tidy."
The misery in Harry's eyes is all too apparent.
"I'm sorry, son. You'd been through so much in those days, and - and perhaps we burdened you with our dreams and desires, without even realizing it."
"Arthur, I was legally an adult. I'd been making my own decisions for years. I wanted to marry Ginny. I just - somewhere along the line, we changed. She - she can't see past the image anymore, and I - I'm tired of trying to catch her attention." He finishes lamely, feeling soul-weary.
"Had you up there long enough, has she?"
"Sir?" Arthur's inquisitive observation has astonished him.
"On your pedestal," he answers. "I can understand, Harry. It makes me - makes me ache for my little girl, but I do understand." Arthur's voice creaks a little, and it reminds Harry how much his father-in-law has aged since the loss of one of his sons with the end of the War. A warm rush of gratitude flows through him.
"Thank you, Arthur," Harry says. "I was afraid - "
"Of course, you - you understand that we'll - we'll have to be looking after Ginny right now, supporting her in all this - and - and the children, of course." Arthur sighs again, shaking his head slightly. "First Ron, and now Ginny…"
Harry can discern what Arthur is not saying. He is on his own. Perhaps, given enough time, the wounds might heal, but - no offense to Harry - the Weasleys' first priority is to their own. He thinks of the Burrow at Christmas, the happy glut of people tumbling over one another, voices and goblets raised, and feels as if he has been shut up under the stairs once again.
"I've - I've already gotten more than I thought I would with just your understanding. I - I certainly don't want to cause Ginny - or anyone else - undue hardship, given everything that's already happened."
Arthur smiles at him, and it is a real smile, and this both heartens and hurts Harry. The older man grips Harry's shoulder with the hand extended along the back of the pew, in a gesture of support. He seems sorry that he can't do more.
"How did you find me?" Harry wonders suddenly. He supposes that it wouldn't a masterful deduction, to search for him here at the church where he and Ginny were married, but he is surprised that Arthur thought of it.
"I Flooed Hermione," is Arthur's simple answer, and it knocks Harry's world -misaligned as it is - even further awry. He hears himself laugh, and it is a pathetic and nearly hysterical sound, coupled with a wheezy breath from his lungs and a tense knot in his stomach. He is leaving damp fingerprints on the back of the pew in front of him, where he is clenching it.
It is so like her to instinctively know where he'd gone - he wonders if she came to this place too; she was married here only eight months after he was - and yet it startles him at the same time. He is not sure why, afraid to analyze it too closely, but hope is faintly gilding the horizon of his despair.
The aged wooden pew creaks again as Arthur rises. Another squeeze of Harry's shoulder, warm and comforting with latent strength.
"I'd best be getting back," Arthur says softly, and Harry takes a stricken moment to appreciate this as the end of an era for both of them.
Up in the belfry, the clock melodically chimes the hour.
TBC
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