FIC: "Falling Slowly, Part One" by irislock
To: i_autumnheart
Title: Falling Slowly
Author: irislock
Pairing: Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione and other canon pairings
Rating: R
Word Count: 2950 (for this part)
Summary: The laws of motion wreak havoc in Ginny's life.
Author Notes: This is the first part of a five part story. Subsequent parts will be posted every day or two. Many, many thanks to pocketfullof, who was both inspiration and beta reader, and to lyras for the eleventh hour Brit pick. Thanks also to antoshevu for the encouragement in the early stages.
For
i_autumnheart, who requested:
Almost anything plotty that's not too dark.
A happy ending :)
Poetry, quote, or lyric for inspiration:
Who wills, can.
Who tries, does.
Who loves, lives.
I hope this satisfies!
Newton's First Law of Motion: Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it.
Part One: Gravity
Two Bludgers to the head and her world goes black.
When she wakes, it is mostly blue. The walls, the curtains, the small painted table by the bed, the bedcovers - they all meet her eyes in varying shades of blue. There are even blue hydrangeas in a vase. She thinks that the effect was meant to be soothing, but the decorator didn't get it quite right. Or perhaps she isn't soothed because the room is populated by a number of redheads with pale skin and freckles, standing, speechless, all worried faces and clenched hands. She counts seven of them, and three others: a beautiful blonde woman who just might be pregnant, a woman with wild, curly brown hair holding the hand of the tallest redhead, and, in the corner, a skinny bloke with glasses and hair that makes him appear as if he were delivered to the room by tornado.
The lone red-haired woman in the room is the first to speak. "Oh, thank Godric!" Rushing forward and without asking permission, the woman sits on the bed and grasps her hand. "Ginny, dear, you're going to be alright."
"Who's Ginny?" - she hears a voice, presumably her own, say. It is gravelly and unpractised.
Her head hurts, and when she reaches up to rub it, she can feel the cloth it is wrapped in. No one answers her first question so she asks another. "What happened?"
"Well, Ginny," the woman begins and then stops. Pausing to wipe away a tear, this stranger continues her explanation.
"You had an....accident. Playing Quidditch. You got hit in the head rather hard."
She must have, she thinks, because the woman is making no sense. She doesn't know who Ginny is, nor why anyone would be named Ginny. It seems such a plain, common name. She has never heard of Quidditch. And who is this woman anyway?
"Who's Ginny?" she repeats.
The woman's lips tighten, making her look even more worried.
"You are," she replies in a soft but determined voice. "You're my daughter. My only daughter. My Ginny."
"More like Harry's Ginny, don't you mean, Mum?" says one of the red-haired men, who, she realizes with horror, has only one ear.
There is attempted laughter, but the blonde woman interjects. "Nonsense! She 'eez not any-wonz Ginny. She eez only 'erself - Ginevra."
Ginevra? Well, that's much better. What a lovely name.
"Don't be silly, Fleur," says the man closest to the blonde woman. "You know she hates that name." She notices that this man has numerous deep scars on his face and that one of the others, the tallest one, has similar scars on his arms. Another of them has what appear to be burn marks on his arms and face. She hopes to god that this is all a mistake and she isn't really related to any of these people - they seem more like a group of circus freaks than a family.
The oldest man in the room steps forward in an attempt to take control of the situation.
"Hi sweetheart. It's Dad. We're all very glad you're awake. What's the last thing you remember?"
A reasonable question, even if she is sure she has never seen this man before and he can't possibly be her father. She searches her memory. It doesn't take long.
"I - I don't remember any - anything," she says, the terror of the discovery still new and reflected on all of their faces. "Nothing."
~*~
In the days that follow, people tell her a remarkable number of preposterous things. That she is a witch. That she can do magic (with a wand). That she earns money by flying on a broomstick and throwing a ball through a hoop twenty metres in the air. People (other witches and wizards, she is told) show her newspaper photos - pictures that move, for heaven's sake - where a young woman is clearly on a broomstick and looks happy. One of the Healers (that's what everyone in this loonybin calls the witches and wizards who say they are trying to make her better) shows her a newspaper article about her accident. She reads it many times, and watches the young player being hit off her broom and plummet to the ground. Surely, if that were her, she would remember, wouldn't she? But she doesn't.
She struggles with the proper response to this insanity. She learns quickly that outrage and denial are useless; the Healers offer her calming potions and sleeping draughts, and when she refuses to take them, they draw their wands from their voluminous robes and cast charms, which, despite her disbelief, seem to work. She tries instead to look interested and curious when they tell her about her so-called life "before the accident", or their latest theories as to why her memory is gone. She is principally interested in when it will come back, but no one can tell her that. To her, this is proof that they cannot possibly do real magic - any witch or wizard worth anything ought to be able to make her memory come back.
She takes care to learn all of their names and rarely makes a mistake, even among all those redheaded men. Their scars and disfigurements make it easier to tell them apart. She cannot bear to have them call her Ginny, though, and she asks them all to call her Ginevra. It's difficult for them, she can tell, but they try.
Ronald asks for the same consideration; he says he'll call her Ginevra if she will call him Ron instead of Ronald. She parlays it into a joke and says she'll try to remember to do that. She doesn't tell him that the formal names are more comfortable for her because she really doesn't feel like she knows them well enough to use anything else.
Ronald - no, Ron - is engaged to Hermione, the bushy-haired witch she saw on what she thinks of as the First Day. Much more striking than her hair is Hermione's intelligence, and she begins to suspect that in spite of the Healers and specialists, Hermione is the person most likely to come up with a solution to her problem. Hermione visits regularly and is always kind despite a disconcerting propensity for tears in her presence. It takes a few days, but she gathers the courage to ask.
"Aren't there Memory Charms, Hermione? Surely there is some magic for this."
"Well, Ginny, oh, I'm sorry - Ginevra - there are, but all of the Memory Charms are to take away memories. Like when a Muggle - you know, someone who can't do magic - witnesses magic. They have that memory removed to preserve the Statute of Secrecy."
She suppresses a laugh at the phrase Statute of Secrecy and presses on.
"So what do you say for a memory charm?"
Hermione fidgets momentarily with a strand of her hair. "Um... well, I guess the most well known one is Obliviate."
"So, why can't you - or the Healers - just un-Obliviate me?"
"It's not that easy. You didn't lose your memory as the result of a Memory Charm. And even if you had, reversal isn't a simple matter. If you had preserved memories somewhere, it might be easier, but...
"Preserved memories how?"
She's only known the woman three days, but she knows that when Hermione starts to wring her hands, it means she is nervous. "Hermione?"
She sighs and finally answers "It doesn't matter. You didn't save your memories, so it doesn't matter."
"How do you know I didn't?"
Hermione looks even more uncomfortable now. "Well, I suppose we don't know for sure, but we've all wracked our brains and can't find any evidence that you did." Hermione looks at her, eyes shimmering. "Oh, Ginevra, I know this is hard. It's hard for all of us. But we're trying. I've been doing lots of research, and George has been experimenting with memory potions. Ron's even talked to Professor Slughorn about making Felix Felicis, but that takes a long time, and it's a luck potion. There's no guarantee that it would bring your memory back and..." There is a pause, and her shoulders slump uncharacteristically. "We all just want to help."
Ginevra knows this is true, and it's a little overwhelming. She doesn't know them, really, and they don't know her, at least not the her that woke up. But they all clearly love her and have set aside their own lives to try and help her remember hers.
"I've looked everywhere," Hermione continues, "but there haven't been any cases exactly like yours."
She is surprised at this. "But Charles - Charlie, I mean - told me that Quidditch has been played for hundreds of years. How is it possible that one else has been hit by two Blubbers at the same time?"
"Bludgers," Hermione corrects. "Well, yes, four people have. It's always the result of a malfunction or an illegal jinx because Bludgers are supposed to be charmed not to hit the same player at the same time. It hasn't happened in two hundred and fifty years and...and the other three...died."
"Oh."
~*~
She asks on five separate occasions to see a mirror, not because she is vain, but because she is hoping to see proof that she's not the person everyone keeps telling her she is, not the person in the pictures she has been shown. Maybe she will see a green face and a wart - like the witches in her imagination. Failing that, maybe she will see something to convince her that this is all really a dream - a thumb where her nose should be, or something. Anything.
What she sees in the mirror as a young Healer removes her head bandage is exactly what she is afraid of. She looks like a Weasley. Pale skin and freckles, like all of them. Her hair is incredibly short. She asks about this and is told that it had to be severed because most of it was tangled in her broomstick after the fall. The Healer offers to grow it for her, but the thought of being subjected to more magic is not pleasant. It's a bit severe, but she prefers to let it grow on its own. Her eyes are the same colour as her mother's, and there are dark purple bruises around both of them that make her wince at their ugliness.
It is so odd, she thinks, not for the first time. She knows what a bruise is, but she doesn't remember getting these - or any others for that matter. She knows what lots of words mean - family, broomstick, blue. But she can't summon any memories to go with those words. She doesn't remember being held by her dad as a child or the feel of flying. How can she know what they mean and not remember them? It is so bloody frustrating that she cannot dwell on it for more than a few minutes at a time without breaking down utterly.
~*~
A steady stream of visitors keeps her company. Her mother is there for several hours every day. She cannot call her Mum or Mother, so she settles on Molly. For her part, Molly doesn't have much difficulty calling her Ginevra. "I've always loved that name; I'm so glad you're using it." Molly is a pleasant woman who tries to keep a smile on her face and talk about positive things. From Molly, she hears stories of her childhood and her older brothers: what they were like before she was born and what they are like now. Molly tells her about her father and his work at the Ministry. Once or twice Molly mentions war; Molly's brothers died in the "first war", things have been better since "the last war", and Professor McGonagall has been Headmistress at Hogwarts since "the battle." This last brings tears to Molly's eyes. She asks, but Molly won't discuss it.
Molly knits, and she is knitting socks and a cap for William - no, Bill - and Fleur's baby. Ginevra asks if she used to knit, and Molly laughs. "No, dear, you always hated the thought of knitting; never had any interest. You were too busy keeping up with your brothers." She can't picture it, but she is glad to at last have said something that gets a reaction other than shock or disappointment.
Percy and her dad, whom she calls Arthur, visit in the morning before they go to work, and Arthur comes back in the evening to eat dinner with her and Molly. Bill and Fleur visit briefly during lunch each day. Ron and George visit at unpredictable times, though not usually together because they run some sort of shop and one of them has to be there. George brings her a balm that fades her bruises within two hours, and she begins to like this family a bit and think that maybe there is something to this magic stuff after all. Charlie goes back to Romania to work with dragons (dragons). Hermione stops visiting after the Memory Charm discussion and instead sends her short letters. She is told they are delivered by owl, but thankfully, it's the Healers who bring them to her room.
It isn't the only mail she gets, but it's the only mail she reads. Dozens of get-well cards and gifts - from fruit to broomsticks - arrive. Most are addressed to Ginny, but there is the occasional card to "the Best Quidditch player in the world" or "The Hottest Harpie." It's humbling, this outpouring of concern and support, but it's all directed at someone she doesn't know. She piles everything in a closet until she runs out of room. She considers her options and finally asks Percy to deal with it. She must have made the right decision, she thinks, because the unwanted mail ceases immediately.
One day, she asks Molly about the dark haired man that she saw the day she woke up. She hasn't seen him since. Molly says his name is Harry.
Something about the name catches her attention. She thinks about it, and then she remembers ... that someone had called her "Harry's Ginny. "
"Is he my boyfriend?" she asks, incredulous.
"Well, yes, dear. I guess you could say that."
"Are we - I mean, were we - serious?"
Molly's smile fades, and she glances down at the small bootie she is knitting and then out the window. She nods, barely, then shakes her head and looks back.
"That's probably something you should talk about with him, dear."
That is the last thing she wants to do. She remembers, of course, nothing about Harry other than how he looked that day, brooding in the corner of the room. He is not attractive, she thinks, long, gangly arms, wild hair, a thin face and glasses. Definitely not her type. She laughs at this last thought - after being awake for only eight days, how could she have a type?
She suspects that Molly told Harry about her inquiry because he returns the next day, bringing fresh flowers to replace the wilting hydrangeas. He also brings a potted plant that he says is from Neville. She has no idea who Neville is but doesn't want to ask for fear that it will only exacerbate the pain etched on his face. He has dark circles under his eyes that rival her own and can't have been sleeping well. It's clear that she has not regained any of her memory, and he looks so incredibly sad that she can't think of anything to say except, "I'm sorry."
She can't ever remember seeing a man cry before, but she thinks that he just might. She wishes she had something happy to talk about. The Healers may release her in the next couple of days, but this isn't exactly happy news. She's not cured, and she really has no idea where to go. It doesn't seem like something she should be talking about with him - what if he asks her to come live with him? He places the flowers in the vase and mumbles, "These are from the garden." She doesn't think to ask which garden until after he is gone.
In the rare moments when she is alone and awake in her room, she takes some time to inspect her body, a thing she is thoroughly unfamiliar with. It's not bad. She is petite, slender, and muscular. She wishes she had a little more in the cleavage department and a little less in the freckle department. She likes her feet; the toes are short but well proportioned. Her first glimpse "down there" is a shock - it's curly and wild with the same flaming intensity as the hair on her head. She wonders if Harry has seen any of these parts, if he has kissed her breasts or - other places. And then she feels slightly ill; she cannot imagine ever wanting him to kiss her at all. And what about before Harry? Was he her first boyfriend, or were there others? She doesn't know and doesn't know if she wants to know. What if she finds out that all of her previous boyfriends (if there are any) are just as distasteful to her now as Harry is?
It's a moot point anyway, because there isn't a single person that she could ask.
Part Two
Title: Falling Slowly
Author: irislock
Pairing: Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione and other canon pairings
Rating: R
Word Count: 2950 (for this part)
Summary: The laws of motion wreak havoc in Ginny's life.
Author Notes: This is the first part of a five part story. Subsequent parts will be posted every day or two. Many, many thanks to pocketfullof, who was both inspiration and beta reader, and to lyras for the eleventh hour Brit pick. Thanks also to antoshevu for the encouragement in the early stages.
For
i_autumnheart, who requested:
Almost anything plotty that's not too dark.
A happy ending :)
Poetry, quote, or lyric for inspiration:
Who wills, can.
Who tries, does.
Who loves, lives.
I hope this satisfies!
Newton's First Law of Motion: Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it.
Part One: Gravity
Two Bludgers to the head and her world goes black.
When she wakes, it is mostly blue. The walls, the curtains, the small painted table by the bed, the bedcovers - they all meet her eyes in varying shades of blue. There are even blue hydrangeas in a vase. She thinks that the effect was meant to be soothing, but the decorator didn't get it quite right. Or perhaps she isn't soothed because the room is populated by a number of redheads with pale skin and freckles, standing, speechless, all worried faces and clenched hands. She counts seven of them, and three others: a beautiful blonde woman who just might be pregnant, a woman with wild, curly brown hair holding the hand of the tallest redhead, and, in the corner, a skinny bloke with glasses and hair that makes him appear as if he were delivered to the room by tornado.
The lone red-haired woman in the room is the first to speak. "Oh, thank Godric!" Rushing forward and without asking permission, the woman sits on the bed and grasps her hand. "Ginny, dear, you're going to be alright."
"Who's Ginny?" - she hears a voice, presumably her own, say. It is gravelly and unpractised.
Her head hurts, and when she reaches up to rub it, she can feel the cloth it is wrapped in. No one answers her first question so she asks another. "What happened?"
"Well, Ginny," the woman begins and then stops. Pausing to wipe away a tear, this stranger continues her explanation.
"You had an....accident. Playing Quidditch. You got hit in the head rather hard."
She must have, she thinks, because the woman is making no sense. She doesn't know who Ginny is, nor why anyone would be named Ginny. It seems such a plain, common name. She has never heard of Quidditch. And who is this woman anyway?
"Who's Ginny?" she repeats.
The woman's lips tighten, making her look even more worried.
"You are," she replies in a soft but determined voice. "You're my daughter. My only daughter. My Ginny."
"More like Harry's Ginny, don't you mean, Mum?" says one of the red-haired men, who, she realizes with horror, has only one ear.
There is attempted laughter, but the blonde woman interjects. "Nonsense! She 'eez not any-wonz Ginny. She eez only 'erself - Ginevra."
Ginevra? Well, that's much better. What a lovely name.
"Don't be silly, Fleur," says the man closest to the blonde woman. "You know she hates that name." She notices that this man has numerous deep scars on his face and that one of the others, the tallest one, has similar scars on his arms. Another of them has what appear to be burn marks on his arms and face. She hopes to god that this is all a mistake and she isn't really related to any of these people - they seem more like a group of circus freaks than a family.
The oldest man in the room steps forward in an attempt to take control of the situation.
"Hi sweetheart. It's Dad. We're all very glad you're awake. What's the last thing you remember?"
A reasonable question, even if she is sure she has never seen this man before and he can't possibly be her father. She searches her memory. It doesn't take long.
"I - I don't remember any - anything," she says, the terror of the discovery still new and reflected on all of their faces. "Nothing."
~*~
In the days that follow, people tell her a remarkable number of preposterous things. That she is a witch. That she can do magic (with a wand). That she earns money by flying on a broomstick and throwing a ball through a hoop twenty metres in the air. People (other witches and wizards, she is told) show her newspaper photos - pictures that move, for heaven's sake - where a young woman is clearly on a broomstick and looks happy. One of the Healers (that's what everyone in this loonybin calls the witches and wizards who say they are trying to make her better) shows her a newspaper article about her accident. She reads it many times, and watches the young player being hit off her broom and plummet to the ground. Surely, if that were her, she would remember, wouldn't she? But she doesn't.
She struggles with the proper response to this insanity. She learns quickly that outrage and denial are useless; the Healers offer her calming potions and sleeping draughts, and when she refuses to take them, they draw their wands from their voluminous robes and cast charms, which, despite her disbelief, seem to work. She tries instead to look interested and curious when they tell her about her so-called life "before the accident", or their latest theories as to why her memory is gone. She is principally interested in when it will come back, but no one can tell her that. To her, this is proof that they cannot possibly do real magic - any witch or wizard worth anything ought to be able to make her memory come back.
She takes care to learn all of their names and rarely makes a mistake, even among all those redheaded men. Their scars and disfigurements make it easier to tell them apart. She cannot bear to have them call her Ginny, though, and she asks them all to call her Ginevra. It's difficult for them, she can tell, but they try.
Ronald asks for the same consideration; he says he'll call her Ginevra if she will call him Ron instead of Ronald. She parlays it into a joke and says she'll try to remember to do that. She doesn't tell him that the formal names are more comfortable for her because she really doesn't feel like she knows them well enough to use anything else.
Ronald - no, Ron - is engaged to Hermione, the bushy-haired witch she saw on what she thinks of as the First Day. Much more striking than her hair is Hermione's intelligence, and she begins to suspect that in spite of the Healers and specialists, Hermione is the person most likely to come up with a solution to her problem. Hermione visits regularly and is always kind despite a disconcerting propensity for tears in her presence. It takes a few days, but she gathers the courage to ask.
"Aren't there Memory Charms, Hermione? Surely there is some magic for this."
"Well, Ginny, oh, I'm sorry - Ginevra - there are, but all of the Memory Charms are to take away memories. Like when a Muggle - you know, someone who can't do magic - witnesses magic. They have that memory removed to preserve the Statute of Secrecy."
She suppresses a laugh at the phrase Statute of Secrecy and presses on.
"So what do you say for a memory charm?"
Hermione fidgets momentarily with a strand of her hair. "Um... well, I guess the most well known one is Obliviate."
"So, why can't you - or the Healers - just un-Obliviate me?"
"It's not that easy. You didn't lose your memory as the result of a Memory Charm. And even if you had, reversal isn't a simple matter. If you had preserved memories somewhere, it might be easier, but...
"Preserved memories how?"
She's only known the woman three days, but she knows that when Hermione starts to wring her hands, it means she is nervous. "Hermione?"
She sighs and finally answers "It doesn't matter. You didn't save your memories, so it doesn't matter."
"How do you know I didn't?"
Hermione looks even more uncomfortable now. "Well, I suppose we don't know for sure, but we've all wracked our brains and can't find any evidence that you did." Hermione looks at her, eyes shimmering. "Oh, Ginevra, I know this is hard. It's hard for all of us. But we're trying. I've been doing lots of research, and George has been experimenting with memory potions. Ron's even talked to Professor Slughorn about making Felix Felicis, but that takes a long time, and it's a luck potion. There's no guarantee that it would bring your memory back and..." There is a pause, and her shoulders slump uncharacteristically. "We all just want to help."
Ginevra knows this is true, and it's a little overwhelming. She doesn't know them, really, and they don't know her, at least not the her that woke up. But they all clearly love her and have set aside their own lives to try and help her remember hers.
"I've looked everywhere," Hermione continues, "but there haven't been any cases exactly like yours."
She is surprised at this. "But Charles - Charlie, I mean - told me that Quidditch has been played for hundreds of years. How is it possible that one else has been hit by two Blubbers at the same time?"
"Bludgers," Hermione corrects. "Well, yes, four people have. It's always the result of a malfunction or an illegal jinx because Bludgers are supposed to be charmed not to hit the same player at the same time. It hasn't happened in two hundred and fifty years and...and the other three...died."
"Oh."
~*~
She asks on five separate occasions to see a mirror, not because she is vain, but because she is hoping to see proof that she's not the person everyone keeps telling her she is, not the person in the pictures she has been shown. Maybe she will see a green face and a wart - like the witches in her imagination. Failing that, maybe she will see something to convince her that this is all really a dream - a thumb where her nose should be, or something. Anything.
What she sees in the mirror as a young Healer removes her head bandage is exactly what she is afraid of. She looks like a Weasley. Pale skin and freckles, like all of them. Her hair is incredibly short. She asks about this and is told that it had to be severed because most of it was tangled in her broomstick after the fall. The Healer offers to grow it for her, but the thought of being subjected to more magic is not pleasant. It's a bit severe, but she prefers to let it grow on its own. Her eyes are the same colour as her mother's, and there are dark purple bruises around both of them that make her wince at their ugliness.
It is so odd, she thinks, not for the first time. She knows what a bruise is, but she doesn't remember getting these - or any others for that matter. She knows what lots of words mean - family, broomstick, blue. But she can't summon any memories to go with those words. She doesn't remember being held by her dad as a child or the feel of flying. How can she know what they mean and not remember them? It is so bloody frustrating that she cannot dwell on it for more than a few minutes at a time without breaking down utterly.
~*~
A steady stream of visitors keeps her company. Her mother is there for several hours every day. She cannot call her Mum or Mother, so she settles on Molly. For her part, Molly doesn't have much difficulty calling her Ginevra. "I've always loved that name; I'm so glad you're using it." Molly is a pleasant woman who tries to keep a smile on her face and talk about positive things. From Molly, she hears stories of her childhood and her older brothers: what they were like before she was born and what they are like now. Molly tells her about her father and his work at the Ministry. Once or twice Molly mentions war; Molly's brothers died in the "first war", things have been better since "the last war", and Professor McGonagall has been Headmistress at Hogwarts since "the battle." This last brings tears to Molly's eyes. She asks, but Molly won't discuss it.
Molly knits, and she is knitting socks and a cap for William - no, Bill - and Fleur's baby. Ginevra asks if she used to knit, and Molly laughs. "No, dear, you always hated the thought of knitting; never had any interest. You were too busy keeping up with your brothers." She can't picture it, but she is glad to at last have said something that gets a reaction other than shock or disappointment.
Percy and her dad, whom she calls Arthur, visit in the morning before they go to work, and Arthur comes back in the evening to eat dinner with her and Molly. Bill and Fleur visit briefly during lunch each day. Ron and George visit at unpredictable times, though not usually together because they run some sort of shop and one of them has to be there. George brings her a balm that fades her bruises within two hours, and she begins to like this family a bit and think that maybe there is something to this magic stuff after all. Charlie goes back to Romania to work with dragons (dragons). Hermione stops visiting after the Memory Charm discussion and instead sends her short letters. She is told they are delivered by owl, but thankfully, it's the Healers who bring them to her room.
It isn't the only mail she gets, but it's the only mail she reads. Dozens of get-well cards and gifts - from fruit to broomsticks - arrive. Most are addressed to Ginny, but there is the occasional card to "the Best Quidditch player in the world" or "The Hottest Harpie." It's humbling, this outpouring of concern and support, but it's all directed at someone she doesn't know. She piles everything in a closet until she runs out of room. She considers her options and finally asks Percy to deal with it. She must have made the right decision, she thinks, because the unwanted mail ceases immediately.
One day, she asks Molly about the dark haired man that she saw the day she woke up. She hasn't seen him since. Molly says his name is Harry.
Something about the name catches her attention. She thinks about it, and then she remembers ... that someone had called her "Harry's Ginny. "
"Is he my boyfriend?" she asks, incredulous.
"Well, yes, dear. I guess you could say that."
"Are we - I mean, were we - serious?"
Molly's smile fades, and she glances down at the small bootie she is knitting and then out the window. She nods, barely, then shakes her head and looks back.
"That's probably something you should talk about with him, dear."
That is the last thing she wants to do. She remembers, of course, nothing about Harry other than how he looked that day, brooding in the corner of the room. He is not attractive, she thinks, long, gangly arms, wild hair, a thin face and glasses. Definitely not her type. She laughs at this last thought - after being awake for only eight days, how could she have a type?
She suspects that Molly told Harry about her inquiry because he returns the next day, bringing fresh flowers to replace the wilting hydrangeas. He also brings a potted plant that he says is from Neville. She has no idea who Neville is but doesn't want to ask for fear that it will only exacerbate the pain etched on his face. He has dark circles under his eyes that rival her own and can't have been sleeping well. It's clear that she has not regained any of her memory, and he looks so incredibly sad that she can't think of anything to say except, "I'm sorry."
She can't ever remember seeing a man cry before, but she thinks that he just might. She wishes she had something happy to talk about. The Healers may release her in the next couple of days, but this isn't exactly happy news. She's not cured, and she really has no idea where to go. It doesn't seem like something she should be talking about with him - what if he asks her to come live with him? He places the flowers in the vase and mumbles, "These are from the garden." She doesn't think to ask which garden until after he is gone.
In the rare moments when she is alone and awake in her room, she takes some time to inspect her body, a thing she is thoroughly unfamiliar with. It's not bad. She is petite, slender, and muscular. She wishes she had a little more in the cleavage department and a little less in the freckle department. She likes her feet; the toes are short but well proportioned. Her first glimpse "down there" is a shock - it's curly and wild with the same flaming intensity as the hair on her head. She wonders if Harry has seen any of these parts, if he has kissed her breasts or - other places. And then she feels slightly ill; she cannot imagine ever wanting him to kiss her at all. And what about before Harry? Was he her first boyfriend, or were there others? She doesn't know and doesn't know if she wants to know. What if she finds out that all of her previous boyfriends (if there are any) are just as distasteful to her now as Harry is?
It's a moot point anyway, because there isn't a single person that she could ask.
Part Two