FIC: "Falling Slowly, Part Two" by irislock
To:
i_autumnheart
Title: Falling Slowly
Author/Artist: irislock
Pairing: Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione and other canon pairings
Rating: R overall, PG for this part
Word Count: 6740 for this part
Summary: The laws of motion wreak havoc in Ginny's life.
AuthorNotes: I was remiss yesterday in not thanking
r_becca for encouraging me to participate, granting me an extension, and running such a great fest. We're lucky to have her for a moderator!
Again, my thanks to pocketfullof for the beta work and to lyras for the thorough and thoughtful Brit pick. Thanks also to antoshevu for reading early drafts.
Thanks especially to everyone who commented on part one - I hope this lives up to your expectations!
As always, any remaining errors are mine; reviews and concrit are always welcome.
Ten days after waking up, Ginevra is declared healthy in spite of lacking a memory, and sent home with her parents.
Home turns out to be a place called The Burrow, which she doesn't understand as it is entirely above ground. It's good to be there at first, away from that blue room and the bad food.
Everyone tries to make her feel welcome in this foreign place. Molly shows her photo albums with pictures of all the people she has been told about. Her father offers to take her shopping for some new robes; he seems to sense her apprehension and they go for ice cream instead. George surprises her with a large basket of bath and beauty products from his shop, including a flowery smelling shampoo that is supposed to make her hair grow faster. Hermione buys her a subscription to The Daily Prophet and brings over an enormous stack of books for her to read, including an unpublished memoir of the Second War. Ron buys her a new broomstick and then demonstrates how to fly; she can barely contain her horror at the thought of riding a broomstick while it swoops and dives. She thinks she might be afraid of heights.
She's grateful for the gestures, but she also senses the panic behind them. They are all afraid that she will never remember. So she looks at the pictures and tries on her old clothes and props the broom in a corner of her bedroom. She even begins reading Hermione's memoir, but the preface is an academic treatise on Horcruxes, which are apparently fragments of a person's soul. The language is dense and difficult to follow, and her being feels fractured as it is. She abandons the book in favour of a Marvin the Mad Muggle comic that Ron brought her.
They never say anything to her, but she hears snippets of conversation that betray the strain of her presence among them. The first time, Ron and Hermione are washing dishes. Ron whispers, "I don't care what Harry thinks. I think we should tell her."
Tell me what?
Hermione shakes her head furiously and then nods significantly to Ron, who turns and sees her. "Oh, Gin-evra, I didn't see you there."
One night, long after she has gone to bed and long before she will sleep, she hears harsh voices downstairs. "No, I told you, Mrs Weasley! I'm sorry but I just can't - I can't see her like this. And I don't think she wants to see me, anyway. Just, please, give her the chocolate and say it's from me, okay?" She's only heard his voice once (that she remembers), but she knows it is Harry.
She enjoys going to the Muggle market with Molly and decides to surprise her mother one morning and go to the market on her own. She leaves a note so they won't worry. The kitchen door is ajar when she returns, and she hears the anguish in her mother's voice: "First Fred, and now I feel like I've lost her, too."
"Oh, Molly," Arthur's voice answers. "Please don't cry. She's alive, and as long as she's alive, we can hope that she'll remember - eventually."
What if I don't?
After that incident, she discards her sense of decorum and begins to make noisy entrances into rooms.
She is greatly distressed about being such a burden to them. More than once she considers leaving to live in the Muggle world. But she isn't sure she could survive there, either, and though she hates to admit it, some part of her wants to fit in. She reads The Prophet fastidiously, trying to absorb as much as she can of the magical world and its workings.
One article catches her attention. It's about a wizard whose trial before the Wizengamot has just ended. He'd been charged with an array of crimes, from possession of Dark Objects to illegal abduction, imprisonment and torture of "several individuals". Mesmerized by a large front-page photo of the distinguished looking wizard and his handsome son, she finds it hard to believe him capable of such things.
She makes the mistake of mentioning this one evening in the parlour. The afternoon rain has left a damp chill in the air outside, but she is poised on the sofa by a warm fire. Arthur is sitting in his favourite rocking chair sipping an after dinner Firewhisky, and Ron, who joined them for dinner because Hermione was working late, is on the other side of the room listening to a Quidditch match on the wireless.
"How was your day, Pumpkin? Anything interesting happen?"
She cringes inside at that horrid nickname and wonders when she will get used to it. He has asked these questions every evening since she came home, and her answers don't vary much. She reads, she shops with Molly, she practises simple spells and charms, and she reports these activities as cheerfully as she can. In truth, all of her days are frustrating and confusing, and the more of them there are, the more frustrating it becomes.
"I read that Lucius Malfoy is innocent. The Prophet said there wasn't enough evidence to convict him."
Arthur's face contorts, and he downs his remaining Firewhisky in one gulp. She hasn't ever seen him like this.
"Just because he wasn't convicted doesn't mean he's innocent," Arthur replies crisply.
"You think he did all of those things? Torturing people? I mean, he's so - I don't know - polished and respectable. He really doesn't look like the kind of person who would do that."
Arthur hesitates, and grasps his glass so tightly she is afraid it might shatter.
"Then you should look again. He did all of that and more. Your brother Fred would be alive today if Malfoy had worked against Voldemort instead of with him." He sounds angry now, and she wants desperately to change the subject, but she can't shake the feeling that Arthur isn't being fair. Fred was killed by an explosion. Maybe he just doesn't like Mr Malfoy.
"You need to know something, Ginevra. Beneath those fine elf-made wool robes, Lucius Malfoy is a foul, loathsome, evil wizard. He's also cunning and wealthy, and unfortunately, he's found a way to stay out of prison for his crimes. But make no mistake, he is guilty."
As he leaves the room, she notices that his expression is no longer angry; he looks utterly defeated. At some point, Ron must have left too, because now she is alone in the room, and the fire, though blazing, does nothing to relieve the chill that floods her.
~*~
Mealtimes are the worst, especially when one or more of her brothers happens to be there. She tries to make conversation or ask questions but their reactions are never what she expects.
One morning at breakfast she asks, "Did I ever keep a diary?" She can't imagine why that would be a devastating question, but no one will look at her. Ron's ears turn bright pink, and Percy's spoon drops to the floor. Long moments pass. She tries to explain: "It's just that Hermione said if I had preserved my memories, they might be easier to restore, and I thought maybe I had written something down."
Arthur regains his composure first and says, "You kept a diary when you were very young, but you destroyed them all after your first year at Hogwarts. Didn't want anyone to be able to read your secrets."
What kind of secrets? she wonders.
On a Sunday, the whole family and Harry are there for dinner. She is sitting across from Ron and Hermione and asks, "When's the wedding?" There is dead silence at the table, and Harry sticks his elbow into the butter dish.
What is wrong with everyone? It was a simple question and they all look as if a bomb had exploded.
"Wh - what wedding, dear?" Molly squeaks.
"Ron's, of course," she replies. "No one else is getting married, are they?"
There is some general murmuring, and Hermione finally says that they are thinking of Christmas time, but haven't set a date yet.
Distracted for a moment by the mention of Christmas, she feels a familiar frustration in her gut - how does she know what Christmas is but not have a single memory of one? Then she realizes that Harry has excused himself from the table. She doesn't see him for the rest of the night.
She's not stupid. Clearly, there is more to be known about a diary, and apparently she and Harry must have been serious enough to be talking about marriage. But she doesn't press for details. She tells herself that she is trying to spare everyone's feelings by not bringing up difficult topics, but she knows it is partly because she is afraid of what she will find out if anyone is ever brave enough to tell her the truth.
And so, she becomes more and more quiet, fearful that any subject will be delicate or painful, and spends more and more time outside.
~*~
The garden is lovely, if a little unkempt, and she spends long hours walking the grounds and enjoying the fresh air of early summer. Soon enough, she is compelled to wage war against the weeds, and it's satisfying work. Her family's attempts to help her regain her ability to perform magic have been as unsuccessful as the attempts to ignite her memory. She can feel a vague buzzing sensation in her arm when she holds her wand, but she is unable to make it do anything other than shoot out a few sparks. She continues to practise the spells Molly shows her, but only when no one else is around. Gardening, at least, is something she can do. And she can do it alone - the plants never look at her with the sad, anxious expressions that she has grown accustomed to.
Within weeks, the garden is a raucous display of variety: bold colours against pastels, delicate fragrances and strong ones. She has even started a small vegetable patch.
It's mid-July when she goes out to pick beans and potatoes for supper. The beans are no trouble, but when she digs up the first potato, it turns out to be a gnome, and it bites her. She should be angry and throw the thing over the fence the way her brothers showed her to, but she just can't. What if she throws it too hard, and it lands on its head and loses its memory?
Unsure what to do, she sits on the small wooden bench and sucks the blood from her finger. She wonders if gnomes are venomous and then decides probably not, or her brothers would have died long ago.
Minutes pass, and she hears the door creaking open. Someone's coming - or has been sent - to help her. Which is nice, but she's annoyed that she seems to need so much help.
Ron stands with his hands in his pockets for a moment. Then he bends down to the potato vines, picks up a gnome, and throws it violently over the fence. She wills herself not to wince at the dull thud some seconds later.
Without preamble, he says, "When you were eleven years old, Lucius Malfoy slipped a diary into a cauldron with your schoolbooks." He pauses, and throws another gnome before turning to look at her.
I had a cauldron?
"But it wasn't a regular diary. It was a dark object. The pages were blank, and when you wrote on them, the diary wrote back." She is stunned; nothing she has heard of magic so far has captivated her attention like this.
There's a longer pause this time; long enough for three more gnomes to get thrown, and now the rest are beginning to scurry away. She wants to know more.
"Go on," she says softly.
Ron looks a full three hundred and sixty degrees around the garden before looking back to her.
"Have you read Hermione's book?" he finally says.
"Not all of it," she replies, embarrassed that she didn't make it past page six. She's glad that her blush is hidden by the encroaching darkness.
Ron waits, not seeming upset or impatient with her. She thinks of Hermione's book, and she remembers -
She draws in a sharp breath. "It - it was - one of those things, wasn't it? A Horcrux?"
He nods.
"What - what happened? You know - when the diary wrote back. What did it say?"
And he tells her about her first year at Hogwarts. How Tom Riddle convinced her to let the basilisk loose on the school and how Hermione and others nearly died, and how Harry saved her. He finishes by saying, "I have a lot of reasons to hate Lucius Malfoy, Ginny, but that was the first."
It is late now, long after dark, and she is too lost in her thoughts to correct his use of her old name. She thanks him for telling her and practically races up the stairs to her room. Hermione's book is where she left it all those weeks ago. She begins reading again and takes only brief breaks to eat and use the loo until she finishes it 41 hours later.
~*~
In spite of the deepening summer, an air of sombreness and inertia descends on the Burrow. Molly's solution is to invite some of Ginevra's friends over for dinner. She tries in vain to discourage this, sure that it will be a disaster - she can't play Quidditch; she can't even remember her friends' names, for goodness' sake. It would be awkward and uncomfortable for everyone. Molly just smiles, says everything will be fine, and promises to limit it to only close friends.
Molly keeps her word, and it actually does turn out pretty well. It's such a lovely summer evening that Molly announces dinner will be served outside. Neville is there with his girlfriend Hannah. She remembers to thank him for the plant, and Neville is keenly interested in her gardening efforts. Hannah went to Hogwarts too and doesn't seem offended when she has to ask what house Hannah was in. She silently thanks Hermione for all of those books; because of Hogwarts: A History, she is able to have an intelligent conversation about Helga Hufflepuff and the sorting system. Harry is there, but he doesn't speak to her directly beyond a bland, "Hello."
Luna Lovegood is also there. She's a little surprised that this rather odd witch with very large eyes is (or was) a close friend. All she knows of Luna is that she testified against Lucius Malfoy. She's intensely curious, but she doesn't want to bring up bad memories. She wonders if it's worse to have bad memories or no memories at all.
After dinner, Luna seeks her out.
"You don't remember me, do you?" Luna begins.
"Um, I'm sorry, but no, I don't."
"Don't be sorry. It's quite alright. You will."
"I will?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"It's just a feeling I have. I know everyone is terribly worried about you, and that must be a little frightening for you, but I'm not worried. Everything will work out, I think. Of course, I don't know if you will still be good at Quidditch. That may not come back. Really, though, you have lots of other talents. No matter what your brothers think, it wouldn't be the end of the world if you couldn't play."
She doesn't know whether to feel relief that there's at least one person who is confident that she'll regain her memory or worried that that person is wearing radishes on her ears and corks around her neck.
While she's pondering, Luna continues,
"I'm not the only one who thinks so - that things will work out, I mean, not about the Quidditch."
"Oh?"
"Professor Firenze predicts your memory will come back. Oh, you probably don't know who he is. He teaches Divination, you know, seeing the future, at Hogwarts. I made a special trip to the school after your accident to talk to him about it."
"And he told you I would get my memory back?"
"He said that the stars were moving in a way that favors the victors."
"That's not very specific."
"For Professor Firenze it is."
Luna is nice enough, but this conversation is very weird. The good thing is that Luna seems willing to talk, and she considers bringing up the subject she most wants to know about.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"I don't want to be intrusive, but I am curious after everything I've read in The Prophet. It's about the trial. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."
"It's okay. What do you want to know?"
"Were you really held captive at Malfoy Mansion?"
"Yes, I was, but not nearly as long as Mr Ollivander was. I'm not sure how much longer he would have lasted."
"Doesn't it bother you that...that Mr. Malfoy didn't go to that prison - Abacab?"
"You mean Azkaban? No, I wouldn't wish that on anyone. They still have a few dementors hanging around there."
"But he did awful things to you! And Hermione! Aren't you angry?"
A sly smile graces Luna's face as she looks up at the bright moon, risen early tonight, with her large eyes.
"I knew it!" she says in a satisfied, almost lyrical tone.
"Knew what?"
"That's exactly what you said to me when he was arrested, and I said I hoped he didn't go to Azkaban. I knew you'd remember."
This is striking news. As far as she can tell, it's the first thing she's said to anyone that is remotely like anything she would have said before the accident.
"But I don't remember."
"You will."
Harry hears this last exchange as he approaches, and she's not unhappy to see him. Talking with Luna alone is beginning to give her a headache.
"I just came over to say goodbye. Luna, if you want to stay, Neville said he and Hannah would be glad to take you home."
"No. I should go too. Ginevra and I were having a lovely conversation, but she's probably had enough of us for one evening."
"I can take you home then."
"You don't have to take me home, Harry. You can just walk me to the Apparition point."
She bids them both good bye and watches as they walk away chatting with each other. She notices that they aren't touching, but their heads are inclined together and the silhouette they form against the darkening sky is almost intimate. It's the first time she's wondered if Harry had any other girlfriends before her.
~*~
The house is unusually quiet, and she finds Molly's note. Molly has gone to the market alone today and given her the chance to have a lie in. Retrieving a glass of milk from the fridge, she notices the syrup and butter on the counter. Without giving the matter a lot of thought, she grabs a bowl from the cupboard and begins mixing ingredients: flour, butter, a dash of salt. Soon she has a perfect crust. Inspired, and working from a memory that inhabits her hands rather than her mind, she mixes together a filling. After weeks of practice, she can now turn the oven on with her wand, and by the time Molly returns, there is a beautiful, golden treacle tart cooling on the counter.
She's pleased with her creation and the fact that she used (a little) magic successfully. Molly is elated beyond reason and gushes about how wonderful it is that she did this all herself and that it looks perfect and maybe this is a turning point and Harry will be so pleased when he comes over for his birthday dinner tomorrow.
This last statement makes her heart sink. She emphasizes to Molly that her memory is still absent and this isn't a turning point and she didn't know Harry's birthday is tomorrow - should she get him a present?
"You already did, dear. The tart will be a wonderful gift."
She's not so sure, but there's nothing to be done about it now. She spends the rest of the afternoon gardening and hoping that tomorrow's dinner will be as pleasant as the last one Molly planned.
The headline in The Prophet the next morning dashes all her hopes. There's a front page article about Harry. "The Boy-Who-Lived Turns 21." The title is innocent enough; it's the subtitle that gets her - "Engaged to Quidditch player Ginny Weasley until her tragic accident last month, Harry Potter is now England's Most Eligible Wizard. Will he find love again?" It gets worse: a feature on the Quidditch page opines that the Harpies' chances in the upcoming league playoffs are poor without Ginny Weasley and speculates that her recent injury could signal the end of her career.
She realizes now that for all of her frustration, she had been doing reasonably well. Cocooned in the Burrow, having only limited contact with other witches and wizards, making incremental progress in being able to do magic, she had been getting along and largely ignoring the fact that, in addition to no skills and no job, she has no friends and no plans. Her future is as blank as her past.
Feeling vaguely sick as she rereads the front page article, this time she notices another picture, much smaller and on the bottom half of the page, of her and Harry. They are both dressed elegantly and smiling at each other rather than the camera. As she watches, they lean in to kiss each other gently. They both look so happy. The bile rises from her stomach as she pauses to consider how awful this must be for Harry, who can remember everything. And how much more awful it will be when she tells him that their relationship is over. For that is what she must do. She doesn't love him, doesn't want to love him, and she can't keep ignoring that fact. She doesn't dislike him, though, and she feels so very guilty for having to hurt him, for having to hurt everyone around her. And angry. Especially angry. Angry because she can't seem to do anything right and it isn't her fault.
She dresses quickly and leaves the house over Molly's protests. She spends most of the day walking - around the pond, through the woods and even toward Stoatshead Hill before changing direction and making her way into the village of Ottery St. Catchpole.
She has not thought to bring money with her, which she doesn't have any of anyway, and this is one reason that she returns to the Burrow several hours later, hungry and with no more clarity about her situation than when she left. In spite of this, she refuses food and drink and tells Molly that she will not be joining them for dinner; no one would want her company when she's in this state.
The Burrow isn't exactly soundproof, and she hears the subdued laughter and birthday wishes of those downstairs even through the pillow she has clamped down over her head. She heard her mother make excuses for her absence and now she hears Molly exclaiming that "Ginevra made this tart, Harry, all by herself. It's delicious, isn't it?"
And Harry's dutiful reply, "Yes, Mrs Weasley. It's great."
How childish it makes her sound - like a baby learning to walk. "Look, dear, Ginevra took her first steps today!" she imagines her mother telling Arthur. But she isn't learning anything. She isn't making any progress.
It's a vain attempt, because she has positively scoured this room for clues, but she looks again. There's not much here - a few old schoolbooks, and a couple of posters on the walls, a programme from the Quidditch World Cup of 1994. It's plain that she moved out of this room long ago. She picks up an old Witch Weekly and tries to think of something other than all of the people downstairs that she's avoiding. Concentration is elusive though, and she finally gives up and puts on some pajamas that Fleur gave her.
She knows if she lies down that she won't sleep, so she sits at the small desk in front of the window and gazes out. Maybe she should write something. Searching the drawers, she comes up with some parchment and an old quill and begins to write what she remembers of the last seven weeks. It takes rather longer than she anticipated, and by the time she's finished, her hand is painfully cramped, and the party is much quieter. She reaches over to open a window and banish the stuffiness of the room.
The slow breeze that ruffles her hair is surprisingly inviting. She'd like to leave the room altogether and go outside, but she doesn't want to use the staircase because Molly will hear for sure and want to talk. The only other option is the window. Climbing up on the desk, she peers out and assesses her chances of making it to the ground alive. She can crawl directly out onto the roof of the porch and then climb down one of the supporting columns. It's not very ladylike, she thinks as she is shimmying down a crooked pole that she fervently hopes is more solid than straight, but it's convenient. She wonders if Ginny ever sneaked out this way.
She thinks of walking to the pond or in the garden, but she's barefoot and prefers not to encounter any gnomes or other creatures. She opts for the porch swing instead, sitting with her back against an armrest, legs stretched along the seat and crossed, toes pointing toward the house.
Ten minutes later, she's still sitting there when the side door opens suddenly, and Harry is backing out. She doesn't have time to run, and he will certainly see her when he turns around. She curls her legs to her chest and makes herself smaller in an effort to avoid detection by Molly or Arthur at the least. His back still to her, Molly gives him a hug and a large basket, presumably of food. He says his last 'thank you' as he steps over the threshold and closes the door. He lets out a long sigh as he turns and leans his head back against the door, eyes closed.
"Hello."
His eyes snap open, and he looks at her, quite obviously surprised.
"Ginny. Ginevra, I mean. I didn't see you there."
"Forgive me for being blunt, but aren't you an Auror? Aren't you supposed to know when people are there? What if I was a - a - dementor or something?" Lack of food has not improved her mood.
The faintest trace of a smile echoes across his lips. "Trust me, I'd know if you were a dementor. And yes, it is my job to know when people are there, but I'm not working at the moment, and The Burrow has the best protective wards of any place outside Hogwarts. I wasn't expecting trouble." He pauses, then adds: "Not that I meant that you're trouble."
This is the most he has spoken to her since his visit in the hospital, and his voice has a nice timbre to it when he chooses to use it.
"Oh, but I am. Haven't you noticed? Everything I do or say seems to cause some kind of trouble, even when I don't mean for it to. I can cause a disturbance just by being in a room. Losing your memory causes all kinds of trouble."
"Is that why you stayed in your room tonight?"
She nods.
He sighs,. "I know how you feel."
Arrogant git. She shoots her legs back across the bench of the swing and crosses her arms in front of her. "How could you possibly know how I feel?"
"Oh, I don't mean about the lost memory thing. I meant, I know how it feels to think that everything you do causes trouble for people you care about and that everyone would be better off if you just weren't around."
"I see. And how do you know that?" Tantalizing aromas are emanating from the basket he's holding, and her stomach makes eager noises. He raises one eyebrow.
"Hungry?"
"No," she says, but her stomach betrays her in a series of embarrassing slorps and groans, and he laughs.
Perhaps it's the light from the kitchen window that casts a flattering glow and reflects off his eyes, or perhaps it's just the novelty of seeing a smile on his face (his real face, not one she has seen in pictures), but the effect is dramatic - his whole demeanor changes when he smiles, and he looks like someone she actually might want to have a conversation with. Which is not to say that she can be deterred from the task at hand. She must make a clean break with Harry so that he can get on with his life, even if hers doesn't have much to be getting on with.
"Well, let's see," he says, peering into the basket Molly gave him, "I have bread, soup" - he continues examining basket's contents -"um, stewed carrots, I think, applesauce, potatoes" - more rummaging - "some sliced ham, roast, shepherd's pie, beans, and oh, yeah, treacle tart. Are you sure you wouldn't like something? Here, have some bread."
He proffers her a bread roll, and it's all she can do not to salivate. Has she really not eaten anything all day?
She uncrosses her arms and takes the roll, just to be polite. The first bite is small and tentative, but Molly's rolls are the best she's ever eaten, and she practically inhales the rest.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. Another?"
"No, really. That's alright." She smooths her pajama shirt, checking to make sure it doesn't reveal too much. "That basket must be heavy, though. You can sit down if you like." She swings her legs around in front of her to make room and gestures toward the empty space. Her stomach gurgles appreciatively. He looks dubious, so she adds, "I promise I won't bite. No matter how hungry I am."
"It's not your bite I'm worried about."
"Oh? What, then?"
By way of response, he shrugs and sits down, placing the basket between them. Neither of them speaks for a bit, and she wants to say something, but she's not sure what - the smell of the roast and potatoes is distracting.
"So, you were saying?" she prods.
"Oh, right. When I was in my fifth year at Hogwarts, your dad was attacked by a big snake. And I thought it was all my fault. It was, in a way, but there isn't anything I could've done about it. And I went to my godfather's for Christmas, and you and your whole family were there, and I just kept thinking about how much worse off you all were because of me. I tried to leave, but Professor Dumbledore stopped me."
They sense movement in the kitchen at the same time, and he draws his wand.
"What are you doing?"
He holds a finger to his lips to shush her and whispers, "Do you want them to know you're out here?"
She shakes her head silently as he says something; she can't make out the words.
"What did you say?"
"I just cast a couple of charms so that they won't see you out here, and they won't look in your room for a few hours."
It occurs to her that she is quite vulnerable, should he mean her harm. No one knows she is here, and she's quite sure that he could take her away and do all manner of unspeakable things and not get caught. She knows that at one time he was thought to be mentally unstable, but that was just rumour according to Hermione's book. And really, she doesn't feel threatened. They were engaged after all, and the emotions she's seen of his until tonight seem to range from melancholy to depression and back again.
"Um, thanks, I guess. Can they see you?"
He shakes his head, and pushes the ground with a foot. The swing sways gently, and it's rather pleasant.
"Why do you think Dumbledore stopped you?"
Harry seems to consider his answer carefully. "Because he knew that I was in the best, the safest place for me and that no one that mattered held what had happened against me."
"At least you could remember what happened."
"Yeah. But at the time, remembering what happened made it worse. I had all these nightmares that I couldn't stop thinking about."
"Interesting. When I was talking to Luna, I kept wondering if it's better to have bad memories or no memory.
"Well, you've had both. Maybe if you ever get your memory back, you'll be able to tell us which is worse."
"That's a big if. I'm beginning to think it might not come back. I've tried all the Healer's suggestions, read all of Hermione's books, practised the spells that Molly showed me. I'm getting the tiniest bit better at magic, but nothing seems to be able to make me remember things before the accident."
She stops for a breath before continuing. "I'm just so tired of disappointing everybody. Today, I read about how I broke your heart and dashed my team's chances of winning the league championship, and the fact that I didn't know I did either of those things is so frustrating, and I'm so sorry but I -"
Harry cuts in. "You already said that. And you can stop saying it because it's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."
"Neither did you."
"Yes, I did, and I owe you an apology. Your mum and Hermione, hell, even Ron, have been after me for weeks to tell you about that. Or to let them. But I wouldn't. I didn't want to put any pressure on you to remember or make you feel bad for not being able to. So instead, you get to read about it in the paper and feel worse - brilliant job I did on that one."
He chuckles halfheartedly. "Dumbledore was right about that too. It's easy to make mistakes when you're trying to protect people you love." His hands grip the edge of the porch swing tightly, so tightly that his knuckles are white, and he's looking at the ground.
This touches her more than she expected. Perhaps she's mistaken his thoughtfulness for moodiness. She'd thought that Harry had been spending time moping about waiting for her memory to return. Maybe he had, but he'd also been thinking of how she was feeling and trying to help, in a wrongheaded sort of way.
She steadies herself for what she's going to say.
"So, do you think The Prophet's right? Will you be able to put me in your past and ... move on?"
He snorts at this. "You think I'd do that? Look for someone else?" he says, his voice edged with surprise and disgust.
"I don't know what you'd do. But I don't think it's a bad idea. I've got no idea what's going to happen to me, but that doesn't mean you have to - to just sit around and - and -wait - for something that might not happen. I'm sure there are plenty of witches who'd be interested."
She stops now because his anguish is palpable. His hands are folded, and he brings them up to rub on his forehead with his thumbs.
She waits.
What he says is unexpected. "Have you read Hermione's book?"
"Yes," she replies and is mortified that her stomach chooses this moment to growl again.
"Then you know that we were gone for ten months looking for Horcruxes. There was no guarantee we would succeed - or even survive. I didn't ask you to wait. I even broke things off with you because I wanted you to be safe, to have a life even if I couldn't. But you did wait."
He pauses and takes a breath while she holds hers.
"Your accident was seven weeks ago. I'd be a pretty shite fiancé if I gave up on you now."
"But I may never -"
"I know, there's no guarantee. And I'm trying really hard not to put any pressure on you - that's why I didn't come around much. But I want you to know that if your memory ever does come back - well, I'll be here."
Her greatest fear is that her memory will come back but that her feelings for him won't. She doesn't tell him this because it seems unnecessarily cruel, and she isn't convinced it would change his mind anyway.
"And what do you propose we do in the meantime?" Her stomach gurgles helpfully with a suggestion.
"I think you need to eat. How about some ham?" Harry says, lifting the cloth over the basket. "Or, better yet, some treacle tart. It really is delicious. But, I guess you would know since you made it."
"I didn't eat any of it, though." He extricates a piece of pie from the basket and hands it to her. There's no fork, but she's so hungry she doesn't care. She lifts it like a pizza slice and takes a large bite.
"Mmmmm. 's good."
Soon the tart is history. She's licking her fingers and wiping the corners of her mouth when she asks, "Did I ever make you treacle tart - you know, before?"
He's busy fashioning a sandwich out of ham and another roll. "Yeah, you've made one for my birthday for the last three years. Four, counting today."
"Really? I didn't know that!" That explained a lot about Molly's reaction.
He hands her the sandwich. "Yeah. This is the first one that was edible though. You were always crap at making treacle tart."
"Surely not!" She clasps a hand over her mouth in surprise.
Harry puts his right hand over his heart and raises his left in oath. "Truth," he says. "The first one was awful. Like Hagrid's fudge. Ron actually broke a tooth when he bit into it."
She laughs in spite of the fact her mouth is full of ham sandwich.
"You were so angry. You swore you followed your mum's recipe exactly, but they just never came out right."
"It's okay, though," he hastens to add. "You were a pretty good cook otherwise, and I appreciated the effort. Last year, you said you were giving up and you were just going to let your mum bake the tarts from now on."
It intrigues her that there is something she can do better than Ginny did. "This year must have been a real surprise, then."
"Yeah," he says, and they both know that they aren't talking about treacle tart anymore.
It's quiet for a bit, the only sounds the gentle creaking of the chains holding the swing, the crickets in the garden, and her chewing.
"Ginevra?"
She's just finished her third sandwich and at last is beginning to feel full. A glass of milk would be nice.
"Hmm?"
"Do you want to get your memory back?"
She thinks about this. "You know," she says, brushing crumbs off her lap, "you're the first one who's asked."
"Really?"
"Yeah. All those Healers, my family - no one's asked before. And, honestly, in the beginning, I'd have probably said no. I was just so overwhelmed. It's obvious that a lot of people liked Ginny - me, I guess - but I literally didn't know who I was, and I was a little scared to find out. But now, I think, yes. Yes, I would like my memories back."
She looks at him. "Not that wanting it will do me any good."
"Well, it's good to know."
The swing has stopped, and she sets it in motion again with her foot. "I want some milk too. I don't suppose there's any of that in your basket."
"No - but I have pumpkin juice," he says. She doesn't recoil when their hands touch as he gives her a bottle of Ichabod's Finest. It's gone in two swallows.
"Thanks."
"Sure. Um, Ginevra?"
"Yeah?"
"I might have an idea. To get your memory back. Something you haven't tried yet. It probably won't work, and I should tell you that Hermione has advised against it, but I think that's because she's never used one."
She's intrigued. What have I got to lose?
"Tell me more."
Part One Part Three
i_autumnheart
Title: Falling Slowly
Author/Artist: irislock
Pairing: Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione and other canon pairings
Rating: R overall, PG for this part
Word Count: 6740 for this part
Summary: The laws of motion wreak havoc in Ginny's life.
AuthorNotes: I was remiss yesterday in not thanking
r_becca for encouraging me to participate, granting me an extension, and running such a great fest. We're lucky to have her for a moderator!
Again, my thanks to pocketfullof for the beta work and to lyras for the thorough and thoughtful Brit pick. Thanks also to antoshevu for reading early drafts.
Thanks especially to everyone who commented on part one - I hope this lives up to your expectations!
As always, any remaining errors are mine; reviews and concrit are always welcome.
Ten days after waking up, Ginevra is declared healthy in spite of lacking a memory, and sent home with her parents.
Home turns out to be a place called The Burrow, which she doesn't understand as it is entirely above ground. It's good to be there at first, away from that blue room and the bad food.
Everyone tries to make her feel welcome in this foreign place. Molly shows her photo albums with pictures of all the people she has been told about. Her father offers to take her shopping for some new robes; he seems to sense her apprehension and they go for ice cream instead. George surprises her with a large basket of bath and beauty products from his shop, including a flowery smelling shampoo that is supposed to make her hair grow faster. Hermione buys her a subscription to The Daily Prophet and brings over an enormous stack of books for her to read, including an unpublished memoir of the Second War. Ron buys her a new broomstick and then demonstrates how to fly; she can barely contain her horror at the thought of riding a broomstick while it swoops and dives. She thinks she might be afraid of heights.
She's grateful for the gestures, but she also senses the panic behind them. They are all afraid that she will never remember. So she looks at the pictures and tries on her old clothes and props the broom in a corner of her bedroom. She even begins reading Hermione's memoir, but the preface is an academic treatise on Horcruxes, which are apparently fragments of a person's soul. The language is dense and difficult to follow, and her being feels fractured as it is. She abandons the book in favour of a Marvin the Mad Muggle comic that Ron brought her.
They never say anything to her, but she hears snippets of conversation that betray the strain of her presence among them. The first time, Ron and Hermione are washing dishes. Ron whispers, "I don't care what Harry thinks. I think we should tell her."
Tell me what?
Hermione shakes her head furiously and then nods significantly to Ron, who turns and sees her. "Oh, Gin-evra, I didn't see you there."
One night, long after she has gone to bed and long before she will sleep, she hears harsh voices downstairs. "No, I told you, Mrs Weasley! I'm sorry but I just can't - I can't see her like this. And I don't think she wants to see me, anyway. Just, please, give her the chocolate and say it's from me, okay?" She's only heard his voice once (that she remembers), but she knows it is Harry.
She enjoys going to the Muggle market with Molly and decides to surprise her mother one morning and go to the market on her own. She leaves a note so they won't worry. The kitchen door is ajar when she returns, and she hears the anguish in her mother's voice: "First Fred, and now I feel like I've lost her, too."
"Oh, Molly," Arthur's voice answers. "Please don't cry. She's alive, and as long as she's alive, we can hope that she'll remember - eventually."
What if I don't?
After that incident, she discards her sense of decorum and begins to make noisy entrances into rooms.
She is greatly distressed about being such a burden to them. More than once she considers leaving to live in the Muggle world. But she isn't sure she could survive there, either, and though she hates to admit it, some part of her wants to fit in. She reads The Prophet fastidiously, trying to absorb as much as she can of the magical world and its workings.
One article catches her attention. It's about a wizard whose trial before the Wizengamot has just ended. He'd been charged with an array of crimes, from possession of Dark Objects to illegal abduction, imprisonment and torture of "several individuals". Mesmerized by a large front-page photo of the distinguished looking wizard and his handsome son, she finds it hard to believe him capable of such things.
She makes the mistake of mentioning this one evening in the parlour. The afternoon rain has left a damp chill in the air outside, but she is poised on the sofa by a warm fire. Arthur is sitting in his favourite rocking chair sipping an after dinner Firewhisky, and Ron, who joined them for dinner because Hermione was working late, is on the other side of the room listening to a Quidditch match on the wireless.
"How was your day, Pumpkin? Anything interesting happen?"
She cringes inside at that horrid nickname and wonders when she will get used to it. He has asked these questions every evening since she came home, and her answers don't vary much. She reads, she shops with Molly, she practises simple spells and charms, and she reports these activities as cheerfully as she can. In truth, all of her days are frustrating and confusing, and the more of them there are, the more frustrating it becomes.
"I read that Lucius Malfoy is innocent. The Prophet said there wasn't enough evidence to convict him."
Arthur's face contorts, and he downs his remaining Firewhisky in one gulp. She hasn't ever seen him like this.
"Just because he wasn't convicted doesn't mean he's innocent," Arthur replies crisply.
"You think he did all of those things? Torturing people? I mean, he's so - I don't know - polished and respectable. He really doesn't look like the kind of person who would do that."
Arthur hesitates, and grasps his glass so tightly she is afraid it might shatter.
"Then you should look again. He did all of that and more. Your brother Fred would be alive today if Malfoy had worked against Voldemort instead of with him." He sounds angry now, and she wants desperately to change the subject, but she can't shake the feeling that Arthur isn't being fair. Fred was killed by an explosion. Maybe he just doesn't like Mr Malfoy.
"You need to know something, Ginevra. Beneath those fine elf-made wool robes, Lucius Malfoy is a foul, loathsome, evil wizard. He's also cunning and wealthy, and unfortunately, he's found a way to stay out of prison for his crimes. But make no mistake, he is guilty."
As he leaves the room, she notices that his expression is no longer angry; he looks utterly defeated. At some point, Ron must have left too, because now she is alone in the room, and the fire, though blazing, does nothing to relieve the chill that floods her.
~*~
Mealtimes are the worst, especially when one or more of her brothers happens to be there. She tries to make conversation or ask questions but their reactions are never what she expects.
One morning at breakfast she asks, "Did I ever keep a diary?" She can't imagine why that would be a devastating question, but no one will look at her. Ron's ears turn bright pink, and Percy's spoon drops to the floor. Long moments pass. She tries to explain: "It's just that Hermione said if I had preserved my memories, they might be easier to restore, and I thought maybe I had written something down."
Arthur regains his composure first and says, "You kept a diary when you were very young, but you destroyed them all after your first year at Hogwarts. Didn't want anyone to be able to read your secrets."
What kind of secrets? she wonders.
On a Sunday, the whole family and Harry are there for dinner. She is sitting across from Ron and Hermione and asks, "When's the wedding?" There is dead silence at the table, and Harry sticks his elbow into the butter dish.
What is wrong with everyone? It was a simple question and they all look as if a bomb had exploded.
"Wh - what wedding, dear?" Molly squeaks.
"Ron's, of course," she replies. "No one else is getting married, are they?"
There is some general murmuring, and Hermione finally says that they are thinking of Christmas time, but haven't set a date yet.
Distracted for a moment by the mention of Christmas, she feels a familiar frustration in her gut - how does she know what Christmas is but not have a single memory of one? Then she realizes that Harry has excused himself from the table. She doesn't see him for the rest of the night.
She's not stupid. Clearly, there is more to be known about a diary, and apparently she and Harry must have been serious enough to be talking about marriage. But she doesn't press for details. She tells herself that she is trying to spare everyone's feelings by not bringing up difficult topics, but she knows it is partly because she is afraid of what she will find out if anyone is ever brave enough to tell her the truth.
And so, she becomes more and more quiet, fearful that any subject will be delicate or painful, and spends more and more time outside.
~*~
The garden is lovely, if a little unkempt, and she spends long hours walking the grounds and enjoying the fresh air of early summer. Soon enough, she is compelled to wage war against the weeds, and it's satisfying work. Her family's attempts to help her regain her ability to perform magic have been as unsuccessful as the attempts to ignite her memory. She can feel a vague buzzing sensation in her arm when she holds her wand, but she is unable to make it do anything other than shoot out a few sparks. She continues to practise the spells Molly shows her, but only when no one else is around. Gardening, at least, is something she can do. And she can do it alone - the plants never look at her with the sad, anxious expressions that she has grown accustomed to.
Within weeks, the garden is a raucous display of variety: bold colours against pastels, delicate fragrances and strong ones. She has even started a small vegetable patch.
It's mid-July when she goes out to pick beans and potatoes for supper. The beans are no trouble, but when she digs up the first potato, it turns out to be a gnome, and it bites her. She should be angry and throw the thing over the fence the way her brothers showed her to, but she just can't. What if she throws it too hard, and it lands on its head and loses its memory?
Unsure what to do, she sits on the small wooden bench and sucks the blood from her finger. She wonders if gnomes are venomous and then decides probably not, or her brothers would have died long ago.
Minutes pass, and she hears the door creaking open. Someone's coming - or has been sent - to help her. Which is nice, but she's annoyed that she seems to need so much help.
Ron stands with his hands in his pockets for a moment. Then he bends down to the potato vines, picks up a gnome, and throws it violently over the fence. She wills herself not to wince at the dull thud some seconds later.
Without preamble, he says, "When you were eleven years old, Lucius Malfoy slipped a diary into a cauldron with your schoolbooks." He pauses, and throws another gnome before turning to look at her.
I had a cauldron?
"But it wasn't a regular diary. It was a dark object. The pages were blank, and when you wrote on them, the diary wrote back." She is stunned; nothing she has heard of magic so far has captivated her attention like this.
There's a longer pause this time; long enough for three more gnomes to get thrown, and now the rest are beginning to scurry away. She wants to know more.
"Go on," she says softly.
Ron looks a full three hundred and sixty degrees around the garden before looking back to her.
"Have you read Hermione's book?" he finally says.
"Not all of it," she replies, embarrassed that she didn't make it past page six. She's glad that her blush is hidden by the encroaching darkness.
Ron waits, not seeming upset or impatient with her. She thinks of Hermione's book, and she remembers -
She draws in a sharp breath. "It - it was - one of those things, wasn't it? A Horcrux?"
He nods.
"What - what happened? You know - when the diary wrote back. What did it say?"
And he tells her about her first year at Hogwarts. How Tom Riddle convinced her to let the basilisk loose on the school and how Hermione and others nearly died, and how Harry saved her. He finishes by saying, "I have a lot of reasons to hate Lucius Malfoy, Ginny, but that was the first."
It is late now, long after dark, and she is too lost in her thoughts to correct his use of her old name. She thanks him for telling her and practically races up the stairs to her room. Hermione's book is where she left it all those weeks ago. She begins reading again and takes only brief breaks to eat and use the loo until she finishes it 41 hours later.
~*~
In spite of the deepening summer, an air of sombreness and inertia descends on the Burrow. Molly's solution is to invite some of Ginevra's friends over for dinner. She tries in vain to discourage this, sure that it will be a disaster - she can't play Quidditch; she can't even remember her friends' names, for goodness' sake. It would be awkward and uncomfortable for everyone. Molly just smiles, says everything will be fine, and promises to limit it to only close friends.
Molly keeps her word, and it actually does turn out pretty well. It's such a lovely summer evening that Molly announces dinner will be served outside. Neville is there with his girlfriend Hannah. She remembers to thank him for the plant, and Neville is keenly interested in her gardening efforts. Hannah went to Hogwarts too and doesn't seem offended when she has to ask what house Hannah was in. She silently thanks Hermione for all of those books; because of Hogwarts: A History, she is able to have an intelligent conversation about Helga Hufflepuff and the sorting system. Harry is there, but he doesn't speak to her directly beyond a bland, "Hello."
Luna Lovegood is also there. She's a little surprised that this rather odd witch with very large eyes is (or was) a close friend. All she knows of Luna is that she testified against Lucius Malfoy. She's intensely curious, but she doesn't want to bring up bad memories. She wonders if it's worse to have bad memories or no memories at all.
After dinner, Luna seeks her out.
"You don't remember me, do you?" Luna begins.
"Um, I'm sorry, but no, I don't."
"Don't be sorry. It's quite alright. You will."
"I will?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"It's just a feeling I have. I know everyone is terribly worried about you, and that must be a little frightening for you, but I'm not worried. Everything will work out, I think. Of course, I don't know if you will still be good at Quidditch. That may not come back. Really, though, you have lots of other talents. No matter what your brothers think, it wouldn't be the end of the world if you couldn't play."
She doesn't know whether to feel relief that there's at least one person who is confident that she'll regain her memory or worried that that person is wearing radishes on her ears and corks around her neck.
While she's pondering, Luna continues,
"I'm not the only one who thinks so - that things will work out, I mean, not about the Quidditch."
"Oh?"
"Professor Firenze predicts your memory will come back. Oh, you probably don't know who he is. He teaches Divination, you know, seeing the future, at Hogwarts. I made a special trip to the school after your accident to talk to him about it."
"And he told you I would get my memory back?"
"He said that the stars were moving in a way that favors the victors."
"That's not very specific."
"For Professor Firenze it is."
Luna is nice enough, but this conversation is very weird. The good thing is that Luna seems willing to talk, and she considers bringing up the subject she most wants to know about.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"I don't want to be intrusive, but I am curious after everything I've read in The Prophet. It's about the trial. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."
"It's okay. What do you want to know?"
"Were you really held captive at Malfoy Mansion?"
"Yes, I was, but not nearly as long as Mr Ollivander was. I'm not sure how much longer he would have lasted."
"Doesn't it bother you that...that Mr. Malfoy didn't go to that prison - Abacab?"
"You mean Azkaban? No, I wouldn't wish that on anyone. They still have a few dementors hanging around there."
"But he did awful things to you! And Hermione! Aren't you angry?"
A sly smile graces Luna's face as she looks up at the bright moon, risen early tonight, with her large eyes.
"I knew it!" she says in a satisfied, almost lyrical tone.
"Knew what?"
"That's exactly what you said to me when he was arrested, and I said I hoped he didn't go to Azkaban. I knew you'd remember."
This is striking news. As far as she can tell, it's the first thing she's said to anyone that is remotely like anything she would have said before the accident.
"But I don't remember."
"You will."
Harry hears this last exchange as he approaches, and she's not unhappy to see him. Talking with Luna alone is beginning to give her a headache.
"I just came over to say goodbye. Luna, if you want to stay, Neville said he and Hannah would be glad to take you home."
"No. I should go too. Ginevra and I were having a lovely conversation, but she's probably had enough of us for one evening."
"I can take you home then."
"You don't have to take me home, Harry. You can just walk me to the Apparition point."
She bids them both good bye and watches as they walk away chatting with each other. She notices that they aren't touching, but their heads are inclined together and the silhouette they form against the darkening sky is almost intimate. It's the first time she's wondered if Harry had any other girlfriends before her.
~*~
The house is unusually quiet, and she finds Molly's note. Molly has gone to the market alone today and given her the chance to have a lie in. Retrieving a glass of milk from the fridge, she notices the syrup and butter on the counter. Without giving the matter a lot of thought, she grabs a bowl from the cupboard and begins mixing ingredients: flour, butter, a dash of salt. Soon she has a perfect crust. Inspired, and working from a memory that inhabits her hands rather than her mind, she mixes together a filling. After weeks of practice, she can now turn the oven on with her wand, and by the time Molly returns, there is a beautiful, golden treacle tart cooling on the counter.
She's pleased with her creation and the fact that she used (a little) magic successfully. Molly is elated beyond reason and gushes about how wonderful it is that she did this all herself and that it looks perfect and maybe this is a turning point and Harry will be so pleased when he comes over for his birthday dinner tomorrow.
This last statement makes her heart sink. She emphasizes to Molly that her memory is still absent and this isn't a turning point and she didn't know Harry's birthday is tomorrow - should she get him a present?
"You already did, dear. The tart will be a wonderful gift."
She's not so sure, but there's nothing to be done about it now. She spends the rest of the afternoon gardening and hoping that tomorrow's dinner will be as pleasant as the last one Molly planned.
The headline in The Prophet the next morning dashes all her hopes. There's a front page article about Harry. "The Boy-Who-Lived Turns 21." The title is innocent enough; it's the subtitle that gets her - "Engaged to Quidditch player Ginny Weasley until her tragic accident last month, Harry Potter is now England's Most Eligible Wizard. Will he find love again?" It gets worse: a feature on the Quidditch page opines that the Harpies' chances in the upcoming league playoffs are poor without Ginny Weasley and speculates that her recent injury could signal the end of her career.
She realizes now that for all of her frustration, she had been doing reasonably well. Cocooned in the Burrow, having only limited contact with other witches and wizards, making incremental progress in being able to do magic, she had been getting along and largely ignoring the fact that, in addition to no skills and no job, she has no friends and no plans. Her future is as blank as her past.
Feeling vaguely sick as she rereads the front page article, this time she notices another picture, much smaller and on the bottom half of the page, of her and Harry. They are both dressed elegantly and smiling at each other rather than the camera. As she watches, they lean in to kiss each other gently. They both look so happy. The bile rises from her stomach as she pauses to consider how awful this must be for Harry, who can remember everything. And how much more awful it will be when she tells him that their relationship is over. For that is what she must do. She doesn't love him, doesn't want to love him, and she can't keep ignoring that fact. She doesn't dislike him, though, and she feels so very guilty for having to hurt him, for having to hurt everyone around her. And angry. Especially angry. Angry because she can't seem to do anything right and it isn't her fault.
She dresses quickly and leaves the house over Molly's protests. She spends most of the day walking - around the pond, through the woods and even toward Stoatshead Hill before changing direction and making her way into the village of Ottery St. Catchpole.
She has not thought to bring money with her, which she doesn't have any of anyway, and this is one reason that she returns to the Burrow several hours later, hungry and with no more clarity about her situation than when she left. In spite of this, she refuses food and drink and tells Molly that she will not be joining them for dinner; no one would want her company when she's in this state.
The Burrow isn't exactly soundproof, and she hears the subdued laughter and birthday wishes of those downstairs even through the pillow she has clamped down over her head. She heard her mother make excuses for her absence and now she hears Molly exclaiming that "Ginevra made this tart, Harry, all by herself. It's delicious, isn't it?"
And Harry's dutiful reply, "Yes, Mrs Weasley. It's great."
How childish it makes her sound - like a baby learning to walk. "Look, dear, Ginevra took her first steps today!" she imagines her mother telling Arthur. But she isn't learning anything. She isn't making any progress.
It's a vain attempt, because she has positively scoured this room for clues, but she looks again. There's not much here - a few old schoolbooks, and a couple of posters on the walls, a programme from the Quidditch World Cup of 1994. It's plain that she moved out of this room long ago. She picks up an old Witch Weekly and tries to think of something other than all of the people downstairs that she's avoiding. Concentration is elusive though, and she finally gives up and puts on some pajamas that Fleur gave her.
She knows if she lies down that she won't sleep, so she sits at the small desk in front of the window and gazes out. Maybe she should write something. Searching the drawers, she comes up with some parchment and an old quill and begins to write what she remembers of the last seven weeks. It takes rather longer than she anticipated, and by the time she's finished, her hand is painfully cramped, and the party is much quieter. She reaches over to open a window and banish the stuffiness of the room.
The slow breeze that ruffles her hair is surprisingly inviting. She'd like to leave the room altogether and go outside, but she doesn't want to use the staircase because Molly will hear for sure and want to talk. The only other option is the window. Climbing up on the desk, she peers out and assesses her chances of making it to the ground alive. She can crawl directly out onto the roof of the porch and then climb down one of the supporting columns. It's not very ladylike, she thinks as she is shimmying down a crooked pole that she fervently hopes is more solid than straight, but it's convenient. She wonders if Ginny ever sneaked out this way.
She thinks of walking to the pond or in the garden, but she's barefoot and prefers not to encounter any gnomes or other creatures. She opts for the porch swing instead, sitting with her back against an armrest, legs stretched along the seat and crossed, toes pointing toward the house.
Ten minutes later, she's still sitting there when the side door opens suddenly, and Harry is backing out. She doesn't have time to run, and he will certainly see her when he turns around. She curls her legs to her chest and makes herself smaller in an effort to avoid detection by Molly or Arthur at the least. His back still to her, Molly gives him a hug and a large basket, presumably of food. He says his last 'thank you' as he steps over the threshold and closes the door. He lets out a long sigh as he turns and leans his head back against the door, eyes closed.
"Hello."
His eyes snap open, and he looks at her, quite obviously surprised.
"Ginny. Ginevra, I mean. I didn't see you there."
"Forgive me for being blunt, but aren't you an Auror? Aren't you supposed to know when people are there? What if I was a - a - dementor or something?" Lack of food has not improved her mood.
The faintest trace of a smile echoes across his lips. "Trust me, I'd know if you were a dementor. And yes, it is my job to know when people are there, but I'm not working at the moment, and The Burrow has the best protective wards of any place outside Hogwarts. I wasn't expecting trouble." He pauses, then adds: "Not that I meant that you're trouble."
This is the most he has spoken to her since his visit in the hospital, and his voice has a nice timbre to it when he chooses to use it.
"Oh, but I am. Haven't you noticed? Everything I do or say seems to cause some kind of trouble, even when I don't mean for it to. I can cause a disturbance just by being in a room. Losing your memory causes all kinds of trouble."
"Is that why you stayed in your room tonight?"
She nods.
He sighs,. "I know how you feel."
Arrogant git. She shoots her legs back across the bench of the swing and crosses her arms in front of her. "How could you possibly know how I feel?"
"Oh, I don't mean about the lost memory thing. I meant, I know how it feels to think that everything you do causes trouble for people you care about and that everyone would be better off if you just weren't around."
"I see. And how do you know that?" Tantalizing aromas are emanating from the basket he's holding, and her stomach makes eager noises. He raises one eyebrow.
"Hungry?"
"No," she says, but her stomach betrays her in a series of embarrassing slorps and groans, and he laughs.
Perhaps it's the light from the kitchen window that casts a flattering glow and reflects off his eyes, or perhaps it's just the novelty of seeing a smile on his face (his real face, not one she has seen in pictures), but the effect is dramatic - his whole demeanor changes when he smiles, and he looks like someone she actually might want to have a conversation with. Which is not to say that she can be deterred from the task at hand. She must make a clean break with Harry so that he can get on with his life, even if hers doesn't have much to be getting on with.
"Well, let's see," he says, peering into the basket Molly gave him, "I have bread, soup" - he continues examining basket's contents -"um, stewed carrots, I think, applesauce, potatoes" - more rummaging - "some sliced ham, roast, shepherd's pie, beans, and oh, yeah, treacle tart. Are you sure you wouldn't like something? Here, have some bread."
He proffers her a bread roll, and it's all she can do not to salivate. Has she really not eaten anything all day?
She uncrosses her arms and takes the roll, just to be polite. The first bite is small and tentative, but Molly's rolls are the best she's ever eaten, and she practically inhales the rest.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. Another?"
"No, really. That's alright." She smooths her pajama shirt, checking to make sure it doesn't reveal too much. "That basket must be heavy, though. You can sit down if you like." She swings her legs around in front of her to make room and gestures toward the empty space. Her stomach gurgles appreciatively. He looks dubious, so she adds, "I promise I won't bite. No matter how hungry I am."
"It's not your bite I'm worried about."
"Oh? What, then?"
By way of response, he shrugs and sits down, placing the basket between them. Neither of them speaks for a bit, and she wants to say something, but she's not sure what - the smell of the roast and potatoes is distracting.
"So, you were saying?" she prods.
"Oh, right. When I was in my fifth year at Hogwarts, your dad was attacked by a big snake. And I thought it was all my fault. It was, in a way, but there isn't anything I could've done about it. And I went to my godfather's for Christmas, and you and your whole family were there, and I just kept thinking about how much worse off you all were because of me. I tried to leave, but Professor Dumbledore stopped me."
They sense movement in the kitchen at the same time, and he draws his wand.
"What are you doing?"
He holds a finger to his lips to shush her and whispers, "Do you want them to know you're out here?"
She shakes her head silently as he says something; she can't make out the words.
"What did you say?"
"I just cast a couple of charms so that they won't see you out here, and they won't look in your room for a few hours."
It occurs to her that she is quite vulnerable, should he mean her harm. No one knows she is here, and she's quite sure that he could take her away and do all manner of unspeakable things and not get caught. She knows that at one time he was thought to be mentally unstable, but that was just rumour according to Hermione's book. And really, she doesn't feel threatened. They were engaged after all, and the emotions she's seen of his until tonight seem to range from melancholy to depression and back again.
"Um, thanks, I guess. Can they see you?"
He shakes his head, and pushes the ground with a foot. The swing sways gently, and it's rather pleasant.
"Why do you think Dumbledore stopped you?"
Harry seems to consider his answer carefully. "Because he knew that I was in the best, the safest place for me and that no one that mattered held what had happened against me."
"At least you could remember what happened."
"Yeah. But at the time, remembering what happened made it worse. I had all these nightmares that I couldn't stop thinking about."
"Interesting. When I was talking to Luna, I kept wondering if it's better to have bad memories or no memory.
"Well, you've had both. Maybe if you ever get your memory back, you'll be able to tell us which is worse."
"That's a big if. I'm beginning to think it might not come back. I've tried all the Healer's suggestions, read all of Hermione's books, practised the spells that Molly showed me. I'm getting the tiniest bit better at magic, but nothing seems to be able to make me remember things before the accident."
She stops for a breath before continuing. "I'm just so tired of disappointing everybody. Today, I read about how I broke your heart and dashed my team's chances of winning the league championship, and the fact that I didn't know I did either of those things is so frustrating, and I'm so sorry but I -"
Harry cuts in. "You already said that. And you can stop saying it because it's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."
"Neither did you."
"Yes, I did, and I owe you an apology. Your mum and Hermione, hell, even Ron, have been after me for weeks to tell you about that. Or to let them. But I wouldn't. I didn't want to put any pressure on you to remember or make you feel bad for not being able to. So instead, you get to read about it in the paper and feel worse - brilliant job I did on that one."
He chuckles halfheartedly. "Dumbledore was right about that too. It's easy to make mistakes when you're trying to protect people you love." His hands grip the edge of the porch swing tightly, so tightly that his knuckles are white, and he's looking at the ground.
This touches her more than she expected. Perhaps she's mistaken his thoughtfulness for moodiness. She'd thought that Harry had been spending time moping about waiting for her memory to return. Maybe he had, but he'd also been thinking of how she was feeling and trying to help, in a wrongheaded sort of way.
She steadies herself for what she's going to say.
"So, do you think The Prophet's right? Will you be able to put me in your past and ... move on?"
He snorts at this. "You think I'd do that? Look for someone else?" he says, his voice edged with surprise and disgust.
"I don't know what you'd do. But I don't think it's a bad idea. I've got no idea what's going to happen to me, but that doesn't mean you have to - to just sit around and - and -wait - for something that might not happen. I'm sure there are plenty of witches who'd be interested."
She stops now because his anguish is palpable. His hands are folded, and he brings them up to rub on his forehead with his thumbs.
She waits.
What he says is unexpected. "Have you read Hermione's book?"
"Yes," she replies and is mortified that her stomach chooses this moment to growl again.
"Then you know that we were gone for ten months looking for Horcruxes. There was no guarantee we would succeed - or even survive. I didn't ask you to wait. I even broke things off with you because I wanted you to be safe, to have a life even if I couldn't. But you did wait."
He pauses and takes a breath while she holds hers.
"Your accident was seven weeks ago. I'd be a pretty shite fiancé if I gave up on you now."
"But I may never -"
"I know, there's no guarantee. And I'm trying really hard not to put any pressure on you - that's why I didn't come around much. But I want you to know that if your memory ever does come back - well, I'll be here."
Her greatest fear is that her memory will come back but that her feelings for him won't. She doesn't tell him this because it seems unnecessarily cruel, and she isn't convinced it would change his mind anyway.
"And what do you propose we do in the meantime?" Her stomach gurgles helpfully with a suggestion.
"I think you need to eat. How about some ham?" Harry says, lifting the cloth over the basket. "Or, better yet, some treacle tart. It really is delicious. But, I guess you would know since you made it."
"I didn't eat any of it, though." He extricates a piece of pie from the basket and hands it to her. There's no fork, but she's so hungry she doesn't care. She lifts it like a pizza slice and takes a large bite.
"Mmmmm. 's good."
Soon the tart is history. She's licking her fingers and wiping the corners of her mouth when she asks, "Did I ever make you treacle tart - you know, before?"
He's busy fashioning a sandwich out of ham and another roll. "Yeah, you've made one for my birthday for the last three years. Four, counting today."
"Really? I didn't know that!" That explained a lot about Molly's reaction.
He hands her the sandwich. "Yeah. This is the first one that was edible though. You were always crap at making treacle tart."
"Surely not!" She clasps a hand over her mouth in surprise.
Harry puts his right hand over his heart and raises his left in oath. "Truth," he says. "The first one was awful. Like Hagrid's fudge. Ron actually broke a tooth when he bit into it."
She laughs in spite of the fact her mouth is full of ham sandwich.
"You were so angry. You swore you followed your mum's recipe exactly, but they just never came out right."
"It's okay, though," he hastens to add. "You were a pretty good cook otherwise, and I appreciated the effort. Last year, you said you were giving up and you were just going to let your mum bake the tarts from now on."
It intrigues her that there is something she can do better than Ginny did. "This year must have been a real surprise, then."
"Yeah," he says, and they both know that they aren't talking about treacle tart anymore.
It's quiet for a bit, the only sounds the gentle creaking of the chains holding the swing, the crickets in the garden, and her chewing.
"Ginevra?"
She's just finished her third sandwich and at last is beginning to feel full. A glass of milk would be nice.
"Hmm?"
"Do you want to get your memory back?"
She thinks about this. "You know," she says, brushing crumbs off her lap, "you're the first one who's asked."
"Really?"
"Yeah. All those Healers, my family - no one's asked before. And, honestly, in the beginning, I'd have probably said no. I was just so overwhelmed. It's obvious that a lot of people liked Ginny - me, I guess - but I literally didn't know who I was, and I was a little scared to find out. But now, I think, yes. Yes, I would like my memories back."
She looks at him. "Not that wanting it will do me any good."
"Well, it's good to know."
The swing has stopped, and she sets it in motion again with her foot. "I want some milk too. I don't suppose there's any of that in your basket."
"No - but I have pumpkin juice," he says. She doesn't recoil when their hands touch as he gives her a bottle of Ichabod's Finest. It's gone in two swallows.
"Thanks."
"Sure. Um, Ginevra?"
"Yeah?"
"I might have an idea. To get your memory back. Something you haven't tried yet. It probably won't work, and I should tell you that Hermione has advised against it, but I think that's because she's never used one."
She's intrigued. What have I got to lose?
"Tell me more."
Part One Part Three