Chapter 5 - Popping the (First) Question
Harry awoke well after nine o’clock on the morning of his birthday. Slowly rolling onto his back, he opened his eyes experimentally but promptly shut them to avoid the sudden glare of light streaming through Ron’s window.
Snuggling down under the bedclothes again, he decided that he would much prefer to remain in bed. With a smile to himself he thought he would do just that. It was his birthday after all. If he wanted to have a lie-in, why not? He was reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed, reluctant, also, to leave behind the remnants of the rather pleasant dream he had been having, one that featured a certain pretty red-haired young woman. He’d never seen her in a bikini ... School uniforms and jeans hid so much; a girl’s figure wasn’t always apparent in such clothes. He much preferred how bathing suits showed off the shape of“
His pleasant musings were abruptly shattered as a pillow slammed across his face.
“Oi, you lazy lump! Get out of bed already!”
Angered, Harry shot bolt upright. “What the hell was that for?” He threw the offending pillow back at Ron.
“Mum says no one eats until the birthday boy comes down, you’re up here sleeping the day away, and I’m hungry. So get up!”
Inwardly grumbling, but loathe to put Mrs. Weasley or the girls out (Ron could starve for all he cared at the moment), Harry grudgingly dragged himself into the day.
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Hermione was the first to greet him as he made it to the ground floor. “Happy birthday, Harry!” she cried from the doorway of the sitting room where she had been in conversation with Ginny. She hurried forward to give him a kiss on the cheek and a hug.
Ginny was next. “Getting your beauty sleep?” she remarked with a wink before leaning in for a kiss.
“Sorry,” Harry said, somewhat sheepishly. He pulled Ginny closer to murmur, “I was dreaming of you ...”
“Knew Ron shouldn’t have disturbed you.” She kissed him again. When they had broken apart, Harry saw Hermione’s face was pink-tinged and he realized she must have overheard their exchange.
Fortunately, Mrs. Weasley entered the kitchen just then, preventing further embarrassment.
“Harry!” she said. “Many happy returns of the day to you!”
“Thanks,” he managed to get out before she enveloped him in a suffocating embrace.
When she’d finally released him, she looked expectantly at him. “Ready to eat, dear? I’ve made all your favourites ...” She gestured to the table where Harry could see she did indeed mean all. The surface of the table could barely be seen with all the serving dishes crowding it.
“That’s great, Mrs. Weasley. Thanks very much.”
“Please, don’t mention it.” Mrs. Weasley called her son for breakfast.
“‘Bout bloody time,” Ron muttered, taking a seat across from Harry, who kicked him under the table.
Luckily for Harry, both Ginny and Hermione passed Ron dishes at that moment, saving Harry’s shins from physical harm.
The five of them spent some long, silent minutes filling their plates with eggs and bacon, sausage and ham, and various fresh fruits, and then even longer enjoying the meal. It was only after they’d each emptied a plate at least once that conversation resumed. Ginny spoke first.
“So, Harry, what did you want from me for your birthday?”
Harry couldn’t stop the sudden grin that split his face. He shot her a sly look. “I’m not sure you could top last year’s gift.”
Ginny smirked. “Hmmm ... Is that a challenge?” she asked, with mock innocence. “There must be something I could do to improve on it.”
Hermione sprayed orange juice all over the table.
Ron, assuming she was choking, thumped her on the back, before asking his sister, “Why? What’d you get him last year?”
Harry shot Ginny another look, biting back laughter.
“Never you mind,” Ginny told Ron, her eyes fixed on Harry’s. Harry returned to his meal, smiling to himself. He was under the impression that Mrs. Weasley, busy refilling some of the serving dishes behind them, was unaware of their topic of conversation. This impression was quickly shattered when she resumed her seat and remarked, offhandedly, to Ginny, “As long as your gift can be given in your father’s and my presence, dear.” She reached calmly for the scrambled eggs, carefully avoiding eye contact with her daughter.
It was Harry’s turn to choke on his drink.
“Why all the talk of giving him a present from you?” Ron demanded. “You’ve gone in with us to give him a“”
“Ron!” Hermione admonished, shocked.
““ a gift.” Ron glared at Hermione. “Wasn’t going to tell him. How thick do you think I am?”
As Hermione apologised, Harry turned to Ginny. “A group gift, huh?”
“Yeah. Dad’s bringing it home tonight.”
Sure enough, later that afternoon, the intoxicating aroma of baking treacle tart filling the house, Mr. Weasley did indeed arrive home clutching a large, brightly-wrapped box. The shape was vaguely familiar to Harry but Mr. Weasley had whisked it out of sight before the younger man could dwell too much on it.
It wasn’t until after a superb dinner rounded off with Harry having two servings (each) of birthday cake and treacle tart, that he got a decent look at his present. Staring at the long, rectangular box lying on the table, Harry’s memory clicked into sharp focus and “ despite the paper covering it “ he knew exactly what it was.
Harry stared round at all of them. “It isn’t,” he said, stunned.
“It is,” Ron replied, grinning from ear to ear.
“It’s too much,” Harry argued.
“Don’t be daft,” Mr. Weasley said, his grin as wide as his son’s.
“Open it,” Hermione urged.
“But“”
“Open it,” Ginny insisted, “or I just might have to take it.”
The looks on their faces convincing him there was no use in arguing further, Harry ripped off the paper and opened the box to reveal his brand-new Firebolt.
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Harry and his friends spent the rest of that evening and most of the next day taking turns trying out the new broom. Harry was thrilled to experience once again the familiar rapid acceleration and effortless maneuvering of the first-rate mount.
His suspicions earlier in the summer regarding Ginny’s flying skill were confirmed when he watched her on the Firebolt. Even Ron was openly-impressed with his sister’s ability, despite the fact that she obviously outstripped him in that area.
The four remained outside all afternoon, only trooping reluctantly into the house after Mr. Weasley arrived home from work and Mrs. Weasley had called them three times to get ready. They were all heading to Shell Cottage for dinner with the rest of the family to celebrate Bill and Fleur’s first wedding anniversary.
Just as they were preparing to leave, the Floo Powder pot in Ron’s hand, a tawny owl soared through the open kitchen window, landed upon the mantle, and, squawking madly, shook its leg at them to indicate the letter it was carrying.
“That’s Bill’s owl,” Ron said, rather unnecessarily, as they all knew.
Mrs. Weasley hurried up to the fireplace, slipping her handbag over her arm. “Perhaps they need us to take something.”
Her husband took the folded note from the owl’s leg, gave it a pat on its head, and it flew back out the window. He unfolded the letter and gave it a quick perusal. “Dinner’s off,” he announced shortly.
“It’s off?” Mrs. Weasley cried, before the others could say anything. “Whatever do you mean? We’re all ready to go. That’s rather late notice, I’d say.”
There was something strange in Mr. Weasley’s manner when he informed them, “Fleur’s ill.”
“Ill?” they all chorused.
“Is she all right?” Hermione was the first to ask.
Harry could see the worried look that had come into Mrs. Weasley’s eyes as she stepped forward to see the letter. Her husband must have noticed as well, for he quickly assured her, “She’ll be fine, Molly. She’s just not feeling well because ... well, because she’s expecting.”
Mrs. Weasley stood stunned for a full half minute before throwing up her arms and shrieking with such delight the others had literally to cover their ears. After much whooping and cheering and hugs all round, Mrs. Weasley broke away from them to peer wistfully at the window through which the owl had flown. “I wish that animal had stayed for a moment. I must send her a note ...”
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As Harry made his way down the Weasleys’ back steps and through the garden at just gone half-six, almost a month after they’d heard the news about Fleur, and a few days before the expected date of departure for Hogwarts, he could see the sun had dropped behind the trees in the orchard, infusing the garden with its warm, orange glow as it streaked through the branches.
He was filled with an uneasy dread about the conversation he was about to initiate. He tried to tell himself that it was nothing to be worried about, that he’d spoken with Mr. Weasley loads of times, and for many different reasons, but he wasn’t convincing himself; this conversation was of much greater importance, and he didn’t want to mess it up.
Despite his preoccupation, as he approached the henhouse he couldn’t help but smile; Mr. Weasley was keeping up a constant stream of mumbled exclamations to himself. The motorbike reassembly was obviously not going well, Harry thought grimly, and wondered if he should postpone his chat. As he turned to go back to the house, though, he tripped over an old Wellington boot and grabbed hold of a rusty cauldron to steady himself and prevent an ungraceful sprawl onto the muddy ground.
“Molly?” came a panicked voice from inside the henhouse. “Is that you, dear? Just checking the hens, I’ll be out in a moment! No need for you to step in this muck.”
Harry swore under his breath. So much for a silent retreat to the safety of the house. “It’s just me, Mr. Weasley,” he called out. Plucking up his courage, he plunged onward towards the modest building, Arthur’s muttered ‘Thank goodness for that’ just managing to reach his ears.
Being familiar with Arthur Weasley’s method of investigating anything Muggle, Harry was not very surprised when he entered the henhouse to find the other man kneeling on the ground, surrounded by what appeared to be every single part of Sirius’ old motorbike spread out before him, the bits of metal and steel interspersed with chicken feathers and the occasional irritated hen who squawked and flapped impatiently beside him before fluttering back up to her roost.
“Harry!” Mr. Weasley said. “Just the person I might need. You were raised by Muggles, tell me something.” He picked up two different parts, one in each hand, and showed them to Harry. “Do you think this part,” he said, indicating the sprocket-type piece of metal in his right hand, “fits anywhere near this one?” he waved the other bit of metal in his left.
Harry raised his arms in mock surrender. “Sorry, Mr. Weasley. I’m definitely not the one to ask. Uncle Vernon hated me even sitting in his car, let alone looking under the bonnet. About the only engine or mechanical parts I ever saw were on the mower when I had to cut the grass. And that motor,” he grimaced apologetically, “looked nothing like this...” He gestured towards the assorted parts scattered on the ground.
Mr. Weasley sighed heavily. “I was afraid of that.” He dropped the parts unceremoniously back to the ground and stood up, wiping his hands on the seat of his trousers. “So, anyway, Harry, what can I do for you? Is Molly wondering where I am?”
Harry smiled. “No. She’s sending another owl to Fleur. She thought of some more advice for her.” He pretended not to hear Mr. Weasley’s muttered ‘poor girl’ and continued, “No, I was actually wondering if I could have a word.”
“Certainly, Harry. Any time, you know that.” He looked ruefully at the mess on the floor. “Perhaps in the orchard?”
“Sure,” Harry agreed, with another grin.
In less than a minute, the two of them were strolling companionably along the wide path that passed through the orderly rows of apple and peach trees. Neither of them spoke, but simply enjoyed the lengthening shadows and now pinky-orange display as the sun sank even lower over the western wall of the orchard. They had soon reached the wall and Mr. Weasley turned and leaned against it. Crossing his arms in front of his chest, he glanced down at his trainers, absentmindedly rubbing one against the other to try and scrape off some grease from the toe.
“So, Harry,” he asked, “what was it you wanted to speak with me about?”
Harry inhaled deeply and let out the air with a massive sigh. Facing the wall, he placed his hands on it, leaning his weight on it, and stared, unseeing, at the darkening sky, now a deeper blue. “I’ve been thinking a lot this summer. About my life, and what I want to do.”
Mr. Weasley nodded. “Very wise.”
“This year is pretty much sewn up, but after that ... I’m not sure. I’d wanted to try my hand as an Auror, but I’ll have to wait for my exam results, I suppose ...”
“Mmm ...” Mr. Weasley murmured.
“So, now, it’s all a bit up in the air. Except for one thing.” He swallowed hard.
“Yes?” Mr. Weasley prompted, when Harry didn’t continue.
“Well, about the only thing I’m sure about at the moment is ... well, is Ginny.”
“Ginny,” Mr. Weasley repeated.
“Yeah. You see, the only future I want, now that I know I have one,” he added grimly, “has her in it.”
Mr. Weasley turned to face him. “Harry, are you trying to tell me you want to marry my daughter?”
“Well, I, um, yeah, actually, I am.” He sighed again, not at all sure he was doing this right, it had seemed so much simpler in his head. “I don’t know the wizard traditions about this sort of thing, and honestly, right now I’m kicking myself for not finding out. But I was raised a Muggle, and all I know is that if you want to ask a girl to marry you, you have to get the permission of her father for her hand. That’s just an expression, of course.” He knew he was starting to babble, but was unable to stop. “I mean you want to marry the whole girl, don’t you? What it means is“” He broke off abruptly at the sound of Mr. Weasley’s voice. “Pardon?”
“I said, ‘yes’, Harry. If it’s approval or permission you want, you have it. From myself and Molly both. No question.” He smiled fondly at Harry. “In fact, we were wondering when you’d bring it up. We thought you would have ages ago.”
Harry wheeled and dropped with a bump onto the wall. He was having a hard time taking all this in. “You did? Wait. You do?” He couldn’t keep the note of surprise out of his voice.
Mr. Weasley’s smile widened. “Of course, Harry. We couldn’t have picked a better son-in-law ourselves.”
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Trying desperately to stifle the broad grin on his face, Harry entered the house a short while later and saw the others all in the kitchen: Mrs. Weasley directing, with her wand, a load of clean washing into a basket, and Ron and Hermione playing a game of Wizard Chess while Ginny watched. She was apparently trying to give pointers to Hermione, who as far as Harry could see was losing spectacularly.
Pulling out a chair, Harry sat next to Ginny who immediately turned to him. “Where’ve you been?”
He gave what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug. “Just went for a walk.” This, at least, was not entirely untrue.
“No, no, no,” Ginny suddenly cried, her attention back on the game. “Not there. He’ll take your“ Never mind,” she groaned resignedly as Ron’s knight sent Hermione’s queen flying across the board.
“Check!” Ron crowed.
“You just be quiet, you,” Hermione snapped peevishly. She turned to her friend. “Now what?”
As Ginny painstakingly outlined a new plan of attack, Ron caught Harry’s eye and raised his brows in mute query. Harry gave him a furtive thumbs up sign before glancing at Mrs. Weasley who had hoisted the now-full basket into her arms and was heading for the stairs.
“Mrs. Weasley?” Harry said, getting to his feet again.
“Hmm?”
“I’m, er, heading into Diagon Alley tomorrow and “ Here, let me take that from you ...” He reached out for the basket which she had temporarily rested against the banister.
“Oh, thank you, dear, it’s just going on up to the linen cupboard.”
Harry started up the stairs with it, Mrs. Weasley following closely behind.
“So, anyway,” he continued, “I’m going to Diagon Alley tomorrow and I was wondering ... is there anything you need from the shops?”
“How sweet to ask!” Mrs. Weasley thought a moment. They’d reached the landing where the linens were kept and she opened the cupboard, loading the folded sheets and towels inside as Harry continued to hold the basket. “Well, let me think. The school things are done, but there might be one or two items ...” She peered at him closely. “You wouldn’t mind?”
He shook his head. “Not at all,” he quickly assured her. “My pleasure.”
She closed the cupboard and smiled fondly at him. “Such a dear boy ...” She relieved him of the empty basket and headed back down the stairs. “Well, if you’re sure ... I think I have a list somewhere ...”
Back in the kitchen she rummaged for a few moments in the piles of paper and other odds and ends occupying the counter before pulling out, with a cry of triumph, a small piece of parchment. “Here it is!” She gave it a quick perusal before handing it to Harry. “Not too many things, I hope?”
Harry glanced at the brief list of basic cooking and cleaning potions. “No. This is fine. Really,” he added at the doubtful look on her face.
“Oh, I’ll just get my bag,” Mrs. Weasley murmured, scanning the kitchen for it.
“Don’t be silly,” Harry said. “My treat.”
“I couldn’t possibly let you“”
“Course you can,” Harry argued. “I insist.”
“But“”
Harry shook his head at her. “No buts. After everything you’ve done for me? Least I can do.”
She smiled at him again and patted his hand affectionately. Murmuring once more about how sweet he was, she glanced at the clock on the wall and strode to the back door. “Now where on earth is Arthur? He’s been out there ages.” She opened the door, calling his name, but her voice soon faded as she headed to the hen house.
Harry folded Mrs. Weasley’s list and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans, heading over to the table again. He sat back down just in time to see Hermione’s king get belted by Ron’s bishop.
“Checkmate!” he roared, punching a fist into the air.
Hermione slumped back in her chair, dejected, while Ron started packing up the game, gleefully humming to himself. When Hermione made no move to help him he commented, pointedly, “You do know where to put these ...”
Harry just caught Hermione’s comment under her breath about knowing exactly where she could put them, before she grudgingly began to help. Ginny smirked at her remark before turning to Harry. “What’s this about you going into Diagon Alley tomorrow?”
Harry’s stomach clenched at the question, his errands were definitely something he wanted kept private, at least from her for now, but how could he do that without her taking offense? Striving for a casual air he didn’t quite feel, he replied, “Oh, I owe your mum money, remember? From when she bought the school things last week.”
“Want some company?”
Again, Harry’s insides squirmed horribly, and he wondered how he was going to get out of this one.
As Happily Ever After As They're Gonna Get by cjbaggins
Chapter Notes: These characters don't belong to me, I'm just borrowing them to have some fun. I'll put 'em back, I promise!