A/N: for this challenge, we had to write a story based on the quote "ignorance is bliss. cherish it," and this is what I came up with. And it came in second *does crazy celebratory dance, comes back, calms down*. Congratulations to Tearlit, who came first (go read her story – it is amazing). The gorgeous banner is by SnowyBella at The Dark Arts (I ran out of space in the summary). I think that's all. Enjoy!
Sleep loosened its tenacious grip on Ginny unwillingly, and the darkness of her dreams faded, her senses filling instead with the heavy grey light of morning. She could almost feel the light pressing her downwards against the rough cotton sheets as if warning her that the day ahead would not be pleasant and that she might as well stay in bed after all. It was a feeling she knew well enough to ignore.
She stretched her stiff arms languidly and rolled onto her side, reaching out for Harry’s warmth to snuggle into. But her husband was gone, and his side of the king-sized bed was cold, the sheets haphazardly tossed back. The dimple in the pillow where his head had lain taunted her, reminding her that it was the only proof that Harry had been in the bed at all. Ginny sighed and sat up, swinging her bare feet onto the floor.
Harry was most likely at work. He worked early on Sundays, didn’t he? Ginny couldn’t remember. She scanned the squat bedside locker for a note, but it was bare. Harry had long ago stopped his practice of leaving little explanatory notes scrawled on scraps of parchment and sealed with a kiss. So why did she still expect them? Of course, he was so busy up at the Auror’s office. But Ginny knew that wasn’t the real reason.
He simply couldn’t be bothered, the same way he couldn’t be bothered to whisper ‘I love you’ in her ear late at night anymore. It was the baby’s fault, of course, driving them apart like they’d swore nothing ever would.
Ginny shook her head impatiently. These were not the sort of thoughts that started the morning well.
She crossed the room, threw back the marigold curtains, and gazed down at the small garden laid out in neat, square flowerbeds as she tried to collect her jumbled thoughts. The garden needed weeding, she realized.
They had slaved over it for weeks the summer after their wedding, almost ten years ago now. The slight saplings were now stout young maples. The flowers were filled with the lazy droning of bees, and the shrubs were leafy and dense. The air was thick with the sweet scent of magnolias. In the summer, that was. November had come, and everything lay still and dormant, depressing in a way.
Turning away from the foggy window, Ginny picked a crumpled pair of jeans off the floor and shoved them on along with a nondescript blue t-shirt. They were bland and normal – exactly how she wanted to feel.
A gilt-framed mirror hung behind the bedroom door. She was never sure why it had been hung in such an awkward place, but then, they had been young and giddy with life at the time – and she caught a glimpse of her reflection in its grimy surface.
It never failed to surprise her, this face that mirrors and cameras told her was her own. It was the face of a woman much older than thirty-five, a face stroked by Time’s careless fingers, leaving creases and furrows on once smooth skin and strands of grey in the once flaming red of her hair, and everywhere an air of defeat It disgusted her at times. Had she really let herself go so much over the past year, or was that pale visage unconnected to her, a vision exaggerated by her mind? She didn’t know, and it was pointless to speculate vainly. Still, it was no wonder Harry was so often absent of a morning. Awakening to a shadow of the girl he had married couldn’t be pleasant.
A keen cold bit at her bare arms as she slunk into the kitchen, a high-ceilinged room with terracotta tiles and a cast-iron stove in the corner. The back door was swinging on its hinges, and Ginny grimaced as she slammed it shut, annoyed at Harry’s carelessness.
A plump tabby cat – Ginger – entwined itself about her ankles, purring, and the furry body rubbing against her freezing feet comforted Ginny. She plucked him off the tiles and carried him to the polished counter where she set him down and flicked her wand at the coffeepot. It twitched and began whirring away contentedly, emitting little puffs of coffee-scented steam.
She reached for a mug on the wooden rack without giving it a thought. A shock rippled through her when she saw which she had unwittingly chosen. ‘World’s Best Mum-To-Be’ it proclaimed above a badly drawn cartoon of a pregnant woman caressing her swollen stomach. It was a cheap, garish thing that Harry had bought for her in a Muggle shop on his way home from work the day they had heard the news.
That day, she sometimes thought, would have been the best of her life if the events that came after hadn’t colored it with grief. They had been so excited and so full of joyous anticipation when Ginny had first felt the stirrings of the small life growing inside her. It was hard to believe it had been little over a year ago. It felt like a lifetime.
Hot tears pricked at her eyes at the memory, stinging her nose, but she squeezed them shut, refusing to acknowledge the pain. Then she replaced the mug venomously on the stand and selected another, less offensive, one.
Ginger mewled petulantly, batting at her with a friendly paw. She smiled weakly at the tabby, looking so doleful with his wide green eyes.
“Are you lonely, too, Ginger?” she whispered. “I bet you are. I bet you wish you had a lady cat to keep you company. You wouldn’t leave her alone on a Sunday morning, would you?” The she laughed, stroking his whiskery ears. “Look at me! Talking to a cat – I’m going mad, Ginger, really, I am.”
The coffeepot finished its rustling and set up a high-pitched whine that seemed to say, “Coffee! Coffee’s ready! Come on, I haven’t all day! Peep! Peep!”
“Yes, alright!” Ginny snapped, pouring it into her cup and adding copious amounts of milk and sugar. She drank the hot liquid slowly, savoring the rush of caffeine it gave her.
Shortly, finding she had nothing to do, and wishing to avoid more reminiscence at any cost, Ginny took a cloth and went into the living room. No-one ever went in there anymore. It was nominally for visitors, but visitors were so rare that dust clung to every surface, making the furniture look slightly out of focus.
Ginny worked methodically - polishing the photograph frames, shaking out the faded green rug, wiping a sticky smear from Harry’s Order of Merlin - until at last there was nothing left to do. The room looked no better, only more sterile and unfriendly. This was why Ginny hated housework – all that effort for so little satisfaction.
Back when she had played Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, she had simply ignored the clutter; it felt more like home. In those days, she had ridden a cloud of euphoria, not a broomstick.
But then she had taken time off to have the baby, and afterwards… well, afterwards she was in no condition to play. It was the emotional shock, they said, of losing a child “and her so young.” Ginny had lapsed into a despondency like a pit of deepest black that lingered still, threatening to swoop in at any moment.
The press coverage had been the salt in the wound, the wormwood in the well. Yet another chapter for Rita Skeeter to add to Harry’s already tragic life-story – and just when she had thought she could finally face flying again, her captain had informed her that since her replacement was doing so well, and was, by all accounts, “a lovely young girl”, there was really no reason to return. And the last little chink of light in the darkness Ginny’s life had been snuffed out.
Harry had been no help at all; he treated the whole thing as if it were a personal affront to his dream of a happy, normal family. There had been furious rows, furious screaming matches that started for no reason and left Ginny curled into a ball for hours, sobbing. Ever since, they had been like two strangers who just happened to share a house.
Ginny pressed a hand to her forehead despairingly, sinking onto a couch. What had brought this on? It wasn’t like her to pity herself or regret the life she had chosen. But how could she not? She was trapped. Trapped in an unhappy marriage with an uncaring husband. Trapped in a pretty little countryside in the cottage.
Escape! She needed to escape from these oppressive walls that were bordered by the past and filled with souvenirs of times she didn’t want to remember.
Ron! She thought, suddenly and desperately. She hadn’t seen any of her family in so long. Ron would cheer her up; Ron and Hermione and their lovely little daughter and chubby-cheeked baby.
A clay pot on the mantelpiece was full of shimmering green powder. She tapped some onto her palm, slipping her feet into shoes. She waved her wand deftly, and flames sprang up in the grate, crackling merrily. A swirl of colour and a faceful of ash later, and she staggered into a cosy pine kitchen that smelt of baking bread and warm milk.
Ron flung aside his newspaper and leapt out of his chair at once, a huge goofy smile illuminating his still-freckled face.
“Ginny!” he exclaimed in delight. “Merlin, it’s so good to see you – it’s been ages!” His hair was thinner, but as ginger as ever; and he wore long, flowing Auror’s robes. He enfolded her in a bear hug and called in his booming voice: “Hermione! Hermione, Ginny’s here!”
Hermione, her arms laden with a chuckling baby popped her head around the door as though she had been waiting for her cue. “Oh, Ginny, how lovely to see you!” she trilled, waltzing into the room. “You should have owled us - the place is a mess! How are you, how are you?”
“Oh, fine,” Ginny replied blandly, wanting to avoid that topic at all costs. “How’s my little Rose?” She was ‘little Rose’s’ godmother, and she knew a polite inquiry was expected.
“She’s over at her friend’s house – Luna’s daughter’s actually. Have you spoken to Luna and Rolf lately? They were asking after you, but oh, do sit down!”
Ginny perched herself on one of the straight-backed chairs that abounded in the kitchen and forced herself to smile and nod along politely for the next half-hour as Hermione continued to babble. Why was it that parents always thought you needed to know every single detail of their children’s life?
“So where’s Harry?” Ron enquired as Hermione finally paused to draw breath and pour out cups of lukewarm tea. “Why he didn’t come with you? We haven’t seen him in ages either.”
“He’s at work, I think,” Ginny mumbled, staring down at the hastily prepared tea Hermione had thrust into her hands. She could feel Ron’s eyes scrutinizing her and shifted uncomfortably. The baby in Hermione’s arms began to wail plaintively at that point, and she left the room, apologizing and crooning to him in a way that made Ginny’s stomach clench with longing.
“At work?” Ron asked shrewdly, after a silence. “Are you sure? I was up at the Ministry this morning, and I didn’t see him.”
“Oh – well maybe you just missed him, or something…” Ginny frowned. It means nothing. You’re just being paranoid…
“Ginny…” Ron said gently, and she met his cornflower-blue eyes for the first time since she had arrived. “Are - is things, you know, alright between you and Harry? Only I never see you anymore, and he never talks about you anymore. He used to all the time… ever since your…” He trailed off, looking very uncomfortable, his ears turning red at what he had been about to say. Ever since your baby died…
Ginny had a mad desire to yell at him, to scream and shout at his idiotic questions. No! No, things are not all right between us, and they haven’t been for a very long time! Maybe they never were!” Instead she shook her head and pretended to be offended at the question. “What? Things are fine with us, totally fine. I don’t know what gave you that idea!” It was not what she would have said in her younger, wilder days, and even Ron – so insensitive to other’s emotions – seemed to pick up on the falseness of her statement.
Ginny had realized that coming here had been a mistake. Every loving glance, every affectionate word that Ron and Hermione exchanged was like a punch in the gut to her. When Hermione re-entered the room, Ginny took her chance, standing up. “I should go – you must be run off your feet with the baby and everything. Thanks so much for the, the uh, tea.” And, ignoring their protests, she Apparated back home.
Harry wasn’t there, but a ring of soup was congealing in a bowl beside the sink. “What difference does it make?” she muttered bitterly to herself. “So he can’t stand to be in the same room as you for any length of time? Get over it.”
But the house’s stillness made her uneasy; she paced the rug-covered floorboards, filled with a strange nervous energy. She picked up books, only to fling them down in disgust at their superficial plots. She fiddled with the wireless’s dial until it came loose beneath her frantic, tense fingers. She couldn’t concentrate, her head was spinning and her mind consumed with a single, burning, itching, irritating yet essential question: Where is Harry?
Her hand fell on a photograph album bound in red and gold, and she leafed through it absent-mindedly. Here they were, in black and white - Ginny and Harry aged just eighteen, chasing each other on broomsticks; Ginny and Harry at a Halloween party; Ginny and Harry on their wedding day; Ginny and Harry, holding hands outside a sun-soaked pyramid; Ginny and Harry in love forever. She flung the album aside with a violent, frustrated motion.
Love was one thing that didn’t last forever; she had first-hand proof of that. It was not only tearing her apart but also slowly suffocating her at the same time. She needed a drink. Some good, strong alcohol, and all these little problems would resolve themselves magically.
The Leaky cauldron was packed with witches and wizards, even in the early evening. A stale smell hung in the air, and dark shadows clustered in corners not illuminated by the flickering firelight.
“A Firewhiskey, please,” she muttered to Tom the barman, collapsing onto a barstool. He poured it out and watched her drink it sown, curiosity in his eyes,
“Your husband came through here a while back. You weren’t looking for him, were you?”
“Harry was here?” Ginny repeated disbelievingly, a thin shard of ice seeming to pierce her. “When – where did he go?”
“Just twenty or so minutes ago,” Tom replied nonchalantly, wiping her empty glass. “Went through to Diagon Alley.”
“Thanks,” Ginny said tersely, tossing a few Sickles onto the counter.
The twisting street was emptier than usual, but it was as colourful and intriguing as ever. Ginny kept to the shadows, walking beneath the eaves of the terraced shops. She wanted to see Harry before he saw her, to finally find out what was going on. Because something was, she was sure of it.
About halfway down the alley, opposite Florean Fortescue’s ice-cream parlour, she stopped. Harry, his fringe flattened down over his scar, was gazing moodily into a cherry sundae, stabbing at it with a small plastic spoon. His fingers turned a scrap of paper over and over on the table, and every so often he would glance at his battered watch. His hunched figure appeared dark and gloomy, but Ginny could sense anticipation in his jerky movements.
At precisely five o’clock, the giant clock outside Gringotts chimed the hour, and Harry got to his feet, glancing furtively around. Ginny flattened her self into the café’s doorway, but Harry was already walking in the other direction. She hesitated, wondering whether following him was right, but her resolve hardened, and she slunk from door to door in his wake.
She kept to the sides of the Alley, hoping that he wouldn’t turn, and he didn’t. He strode with a single-minded purpose across the slippery cobbles, paying almost no heed to the motley shops left and right. A slight smile warmed his features outside Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes. Then he cursed as a shower of droplets swept by the breeze from an umbrella soaked him. Then, he was oddly earnest and anticipatory once more.
He stopped by Flourish and Blott’s, and pushed open the door. The shop bell tinkled sweetly and a red-robed assistant stepped forward to help him.
There you are, Ginny thought with relief, He’s only buying a book. No big deal. And maybe Ron did just miss him at work. She retreated into a narrow side alley to wait for him to leave. She would stroll up to him with a cheery, “Oh, Harry, I didn’t know you were here!” and they’d link arms and stroll side by side up to the Leaky Cauldron. After all, his strange behaviour over the past few months was nothing serious - just a mid-life crisis perhaps, or residual guilt over the baby.
She had only been waiting five minutes, however, when she heard a door slam from the side-alley that ran behind Flourish and Blotts, parallel to Diagon Alley and connected at right angles by the street she now lurked in. A woman laughed, and Ginny heard a lock being turned in a door.
Then her heart stopped. That was Harry’s voice, speaking softly yet urgently. Fearful curiosity overcame her, and she stumbled through inch-deep puddles to the corner. She peered around the redbrick wall. Harry was deep in conversation with the attractive brunette shop assistant, leaning over her with one hand resting on the wall beside her head, gazing deep into her eyes.
“What brings you to this neck of the woods, Mr. Potter?”
“I couldn’t wait to see you again, Zephira…” Harry murmered. Ginny bristled at the way he spoke her name, so delicately, like it was honeycomb melting on his tongue. Zephira giggled, twisting her manicured fingers into his tufty black hair.
“You saw me this morning, silly,”
“But I couldn’t stop thinking about you… and Ginny was out, so…” He moved closer to her and stroked the back of his hand along her cheekbone.
Ginny closed her eyes tight. No, it couldn’t be real. It couldn’t. This wasn’t Harry. He didn’t say that. It all meant something different than what her ears had told her… and then her eyes snapped open of their own accord.
Harry’s hands were all over the brunette, running throught her glossy hair, resting on her waist, and they were kissing with uncontrolled passion, their hips grinding together and undisguised hunger on their faces.
Ginny pressed back against the cold wall and clutched wildly at her face as the first hot tears began to sting her eyes. Her breath came in gasps, punctuated by the moans of the oblivious lovers around the corner. Random images flickered through her mind like a slideshow that had been waiting to play.
She was twelve, and Hary was leading her from the Chamber of Secrets; fifteen, kissing him for the first time in the Gryffindor Common room; at the Battle of Hogwarts, soothing the dying teenager cradled in her arms while Harry marched towards the Forbidden Forest. Her wedding day, blissful smiles all round. Her lifeless baby; ashen-faced, stiff, and covered with a sterile hospital sheet.
But the one picture she could not shake was the one of Harry’s arms encircling the shop assistant and his mouth on hers….
And in that instant, Ginny knew she shouldn’t have followed him, should have never come to that dingy alley. The ignorance she had thought was suffering before was positively blissful compared to the awful knowledge she now possessed. Now, all she really wanted was that old, familiar, painful ignorance back.
But that was imposssible.
So she turned her back on the dim, dustbin-filled alley and her unfaithful husband, stowing her wand deep in her pocket, well out of temptation’s way, and stepped into the wide street where the winter sun was just emerging from it’s mask of dark clouds. And if any passer-by found her tear-streaked appearance odd, thay said nothing, because Ginny walked with wormwood in her eye.
A/N: reviewing only takes you a second but makes my whole day . Betaed as of 6/4/08 by JLHufflepuff – thank you : )
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