She looked around the bleak room. A waiting room “ she was waiting for something “ but what? She was long past the days of waiting for a miracle. Around her, other people were sitting ... waiting, rather. Some had books or magazines to pass the time. Others were whispering softly with friends or relatives. A small boy was surreptitiously playing with his mother’s wand, whilst she gazed blankly at the wall. He was prodding a small Quidditch player, perhaps hoping it would move. Ginny grinned at him. She wondered if the mother would object if she made his figure come to life. A mini- player swooping across the room...
Damn! I haven’t finished that report on the Puddlemere game. That decided her. Ginny got up and walked towards the door.
“Mrs Potter, you can go in now,” said a voice from the door.
“Oh, I can’t. I was about to leave. I’ve just remembered something ...” Her voice trailed off under the compassionate eyes of the young Healer.
“Perhaps you could just pop in and say hello?” the Healer suggested.
“Uh ... no. It’ll be better tomorrow,” replied Ginny. “I’ll have all afternoon then. Thank you.”
She walked past the Healer and then broke into a run.
The grounds of St Mungo’s always delighted Ginny. She remembered walking around the hidden garden when she was in labour with James. The pacing, she’d been told, would help with contractions and hurry things along. Not that James needed to be hurried, she thought. That boy is always in a rush.
Then, when Albus had fallen and cracked his head, she “ white-faced with shock “ had rushed him here. Unable to stay by his bed whilst they worked on him, she’d sat in the garden, waiting for Harry. The roses had been in bud then “ now they were in full bloom, and soon they would drop.
Dad would probably start pruning them next week. The thought sprang, unbidden, to her mind and she gulped at the air.
“You’re a coward, Ginny Potter!” she declared.
“How was your day?” Harry asked when he got home. Ginny was sitting at her desk, quill in hand. He bent down to peck her on the cheek, and she closed her eyes, luxuriating in the very normalness of the gesture.
“Fine,” she replied. “Although this testimonial match report for Oliver Wood is proving a bugger. I can’t think of any other way to describe him other than ‘fiercely competitive.’”
“How about obsessed, possessed, and mind-numbingly scary?” Harry sat on the edge of the desk. “James told me you went to St Mungo’s. Did you see him?”
“No,” she mumbled. “He was asleep, and then they were treating him ... and then I realised I had this to finish ... so I left.” She kept her eyes firmly on the parchment, unable to bear the reproach she was sure lingered in Harry’s eyes. “I’ll see him tomorrow.”
Harry sighed. “Ginny, love, you’ve been saying that ever since he went in two weeks ago.”
“Just leave it,” she said softly. She heard him sigh again, and after a quick squeeze to her shoulder, he left the room.
The waiting room was the same. It was a bit tidier than yesterday, probably because there was no little boy scattering his toys around the place today, but otherwise it was the same. Ginny picked up a Quidditch magazine and was faintly amused to see herself featured on page four as one of the Harpies’ highest scorers. She looked at the picture, taken over twenty years ago; she was zooming around a pitch, her fist clenched. I wonder which match that was? she thought. Tornadoes, 2002, perhaps? No, that was in the summer. Appleby Arrows? In frustration, she closed the magazine and placed it on top of the pile. Why can’t I remember? I used to be able to remember every game.
Outside, she could hear footsteps and then a Healer “ older than the one she had seen yesterday “ walked in.
“Mrs Potter?” she said. “I’m afraid he’s sleeping now ... but if you want to wait -- ”
“No,” Ginny replied. “I can’t wait. I have to get home.”
At Grimmauld Place, she locked herself in the study and pulled down all her Quidditch books. She scanned the pages, searching furiously, trying to jog her memory. Her finger lingered finally on one match statistic. “Kestrals!” she shrieked with delight. “Of course, it was the Kenmere Kestrals. I scored the opening goal, and then added another four before Vanda caught the Snitch.”
“Mum, are you okay?” asked Albus from the hallway.
Pointing her wand at the door to unlock it, Ginny grinned at her son. “I’m fine, darling. Just reliving my past.”
Albus grinned back at her and then stepped into the room. He picked up a book and then took a seat by the window sill. He flipped through the pages idly until he came to one picture. Ginny saw him smile slightly, and then he closed the book. “Do you miss it?” he asked.
She moved, sat next to him, and took his hand. “Quidditch? No, not really. I left at the top of my game, and for all the right reasons.”
“What were they?”
“You, of course, or to be more accurate, James. I was pregnant during that last season. Your dad wanted me to give up immediately -- you know how protective he is -- and your grandma kept fussing over me.” She laughed as the memories flooded back. “You’d think I was the first person ever to have a baby. She hadn’t been that bad since Fleur announced she was pregnant with Victoire.”
“But you carried on playing?”
“Mmm, I wanted to see out the season, to make sure the Harpies won the league. And we did.” She smiled proudly.
“I’m surprised Grandma didn’t wear you down. She can be quite insistent at times.”
Ginny laughed. “Yes, but I was very stubborn, and I had someone just as determined “ but in a quieter way “ on my side.”
“Granddad,” stated Albus quietly.
Ginny caught her breath and felt sudden tears surge in her eyes. “Yes,” she said, in a voice that was barely a whisper. “Your Granddad supported me all the way.”
Albus leant over to his mum. His messy black hair, which he always wore long these days, swung over his cheeks and she had an urge to sweep it back behind his ears. He hugged her; at that moment, she wanted to weep, but she couldn’t, not then.
“Did you see him today?” he asked at last.
“No, he was sleeping.”
She sat in the waiting room. Today there were no small boys to distract her, and she refused to pick up a magazine. She was determined that today she would enter. Today she would pay back her debt “ at least part of it “ and see her dad.
“Mrs Potter,” called the Healer. It was the younger one from two days ago. Her eyes once again were full of compassion, and Ginny wondered when the compassion left these carers “ when they became hardened to the grief of patients’ relatives. “You can see him now ... if you want to.”
Ginny followed her. To the left was a door and she thought about escaping to the gardens. But that would not happen today. The Healer left her at the faded blue door. She wondered again if she could run, but instead she entered the room.
It was a blank room, devoid of photographs, paintings or anything remotely homely. She became unaccountably angry at this fact. Why does he have no photographs? Why does he have no reminders of home? But something sparked in her memory -- a thrown photo-frame. The silver corner hitting her mother across the cheek, and the old man in his marriage bed weeping in frustration because he did not know who anyone was and asking if they would all just leave him alone to die...
“I want my mum,” he’d said that day, as he had on so many other days. “Where is my mum? Why has she left me here?”
“Your mum’s dead, Arthur,” Molly had replied, as she had every other time he’d asked. “She died a long time ago, dear.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Molly, Arthur. Your wife.”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m not old enough to be married.”
“You’re seventy-eight, Arthur. And you have seven children. Look, here’s a photo of all of us.”
Molly had bent over the bed to ruffle his hair and to point out all the people in the picture. But Arthur had become scared at the contact and had huddled further under the eiderdown.
“Take it away,” he’d cried, and when Molly had retreated, leaving the photo on the bed, he’d thrown it at her.
Ginny approached the old man who was sitting up in the bed. His hair was white; it had not been Weasley-red for many years. He smiled lopsidedly at her, but there was no recognition in his eyes.
“Are you my mum?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “I’m Ginny.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
She is in the hospital grounds, pushing him in a wheelchair. It is a warm summer’s day and the candyfloss clouds are few in the sky. The roses are in full bloom -- not a petal has dropped.
“Where’s Molly?” he asks.
“She’s at home, getting things ready for when you’re discharged, Dad,” Ginny replies. She smiles brightly at him as he turns his head to her. “She’ll be here soon, and then we can all go back to The Burrow.”
“For a nice cup of tea!” exclaims Arthur, and they both start giggling at Molly’s answer to everything.
Ginny pushes him closer to the yellow rose bush, where they can both smell the heady scent of the blooms.
“Ahh, Midas touch, I think,” says Arthur as he leans in inhale the fragrance once more. “Or perhaps it is Peace.”
Ginny picks a flower and places it in the top buttonhole of his striped pyjama top. “I don’t think they’ll miss one, Dad,” she says in reply to his slightly disapproving look. She ruffles his hair and wheels him into the shade, for she does not want his fair skin to burn in this gloriously hot sun. She sits on a low garden wall next to him, and they laugh about a prank the twins pulled many years ago. Then they both sigh a little as they remember Fred.
Poor Fred, who died too soon.
Poor Fred, who died before he found love.
Poor Fred, whose family misses him every day.
But they do not sigh for long, for the memories of that boy still lighten up their lives.
“You’re getting better, Dad,” Ginny says happily. “I knew they’d find something to cure you.”
Lucky Fred, who never had to witness this.
The discordant thought strikes her with the force of a hex to the heart.
Arthur takes her hand, and she is struck by how bright his eyes look.
“Ginny, my darling,” he says softly and with infinite tenderness. “This isn’t real. You’re dreaming.”