"Love is the master key that opens the gates of happiness." -Oliver Wendell Holmes
i. Arthur Weasley
Molly really wanted a girl.
As far as Arthur could tell, she wanted one more than she'd wanted anything in her life. He knew she loved their sons, but he never failed to notice how sometimes her eyes would linger on little girls in pink blankets when they were crossing the street, how she would look at the dolls in the windows of toy shops, how she would say casually, as if it meant nothing at all, "If I had a daughter. . . .
It made his heart ache to know it was one thing he could never give her. He hoped just as she did, but he knew it to be a fruitless hope: Weasleys had boys. They always had and they always would. He had only brothers, his father had only brothers, his grandfather had only brothers.
And then the Healer smiled brightly and said, "Congratulations, Mrs. Weasley. You have a healthy, beautiful baby girl."
Molly wouldn't let tiny Ginevra out of her sight for a good week, and even then she couldn't sleep for more than a few hours without checking on her sweet, much longed for daughter, with her tiny tuft of fuzzy read hair and large, curious brown eyes. Arthur didn't think it was possible, but the day he came home from work to find Molly in their bedroom with three-month-old Ginny, trying to sing some silly song in a tone deaf voice to their daughter, her eyes so obviously enamoured with the baby girl, Arthur found his love for his wife grow even greater.
The only girl in the world Arthur loved nearly as much as his Molly was his Ginny.
She liked to follow him around, and when she was too little to do so on her own two feet, her eyes would instead, never leaving him as he moved around within her sight. Her tiny head would even swivel if need be in order to keep a watchful eye on him. And though Molly would throw a fit if she knew how much one-year-old Ginny liked curiously putting his Muggle gadgets in her mouth, Arthur couldn't help but foster the belief that Ginny would like Muggles as much as he did. He was proud to say that her first word was no, her second word Ma, and her third Mugs.
Arthur was pretty sure she meant to say Muggle. He was positive, in fact.
(Her fourth word was Da. One of the best moments of his life, hands down.)
Ginny didn't cry much, and she never seemed to mind the yelling and running and general racket in the Weasley household. As she grew older, she was never bothered by the rough and tumble play of which her brothers inadvertently made her a participant. Arthur liked that. She was a tough one, his baby.
She wasn't the most feminine of little girls. She was never as interested in dolls as Molly would have wished, and after she was old enough to protest it, Ginny never wore another pink dress. Still, she liked it when Molly put ribbons in her hair and, for a good two weeks when she was seven, she refused to take off the little apron Molly had put on her when she made her Mum's Special Helper.
And Arthur knew Molly wouldn't mind if Ginny wasn't the girl she'd always imagined. Ginny was, after all, better than anything they could have imagined. She liked to sit in Arthur's lap whenever he would let her, she hugged them even when she passed the age her brothers stopped, and she had a stubborn streak no other Weasley could even begin to touch.
When she was six years old and ran to Arthur, telling him that Fred and George were being mean to her, he told them off without a second thought. It didn't occur him to ask too many questions about the fact that both his sons were covered in pudding, and it was only after Molly told him later that he learned Ginny had triumphantly stuck her tongue out at her brothers from her perch in her father's arms.
But he secretly liked that Ginny could give as good as she got, could play with the boys. Truth be told, he'd take secret pleasure in everything Ginny did, because she did it, and what more reason was there?
She hadn't slept in Arthur and Molly's bed since she was a toddler. But one night the summer after her first year, she crawled into their bed and he felt her trembling a little with tears. She had been painfully quiet in the month since her brush with death, and the whole household had been tense. "Daddy," she tearfully whispered into the dark, "do you still love me?"
He was aghast. Molly stiffened beside him in the bed. "Ginny! I love you more than anything!"
"Even — even though," she hiccoughed, "even though I let myself be tricked by that book and I didn't tell anybody and I didn't listen when you and Mummy told me not to trust something that didn't have a brain but thought for itself?" The words came out jumbled and broken.
"Ginny, what happened wasn't your fault," he said, his voice firm, "and I'll make sure nothing or no one can ever trick you again. I promise. And there is nothing, nothing, that could make me stop loving you. You're my baby, Ginny, and that makes me the luckiest Dad in the world, don't you see?" He had to make her understand. He had to. He'd tell her he loved her a thousand times a day for the rest of his life if that was what it took.
She nodded into him, her nose brushing his neck. "I love you, too, Daddy."
Things got better after that. Ginny started being Ginny again.
And Arthur knew that all those little girls Molly's eyes used to linger on once upon a time, well, they had nothing on his little girl.
ii. Ron Weasley
He rarely liked her, sometimes hated her, and was more often than not beyond annoyed with her. But he always loved her. There was no doubt about that.
Growing up, it was always them against their older brothers. Percy liked ordering one of them around just as much as ordering the other around, Fred and George took pleasure in teasing them both mercifully, and Bill and Charlie had little time for either of them. They were both the babies. So most days, it was Ron and Ginny against the world. In snowball fights and stupid jokes and bickering matches and boring days, Ron and Ginny were a team.
Of course, they were often on opposing sides, too, and more than once they had to be sent to separate rooms, but Ginny would always remain Ron's first real friend, his playmate growing up, and his only little sister.
He didn't want much to do with her after he got to Hogwarts. After all, he had his new, better friends after that. Harry and Hermione were much better than Ginny, much more fun and grown up and they didn't have to like Ron the way Ginny did. They chose to. Besides, Ginny was a baby. He, Ron, was nothing close, obviously.
Still, Ron kept an eye out for Ginny over the years. It was his job, after all, both as her brother and as the one with whom, when it came down to it, she sometimes needed to make alliances. If she needed him, he'd be there. After her first year, he didn't suffocate her like Percy did, but one time when he saw her run off to the loo by herself, he wisely sent Hermione after her. It was probably one of his better big brother moments. It still made his chest puff out proudly to remember.
Of course, the older he got, the less time Ron had for Ginny, and the less she seemed to like his interference. Merlin, didn't she understand he was trying to protect her when he told her not to go flailing about with Michael and Dean and anybody else? She was so infuriating! She didn't appreciate him at all!
Didn't she see that she wasn't like other girls, that she was special, and that she deserved so much better than other girls? She deserved someone who would realise how special she was, who would take care of her and treat her right and be her ally when Ron couldn't be.
Ron found Harry to be a good choice. Honestly, if Ginny had left it up to Ron, he would have picked Harry for her and she could have avoided that whole fiasco with Dean. Why didn't anybody listen to Ron? Hadn't he hinted that Ginny would be best with Harry? Ginny might have a fiercely independent streak, but Ron knew her better than anybody, and if anybody knew what she needed, it was he. Clearly.
And she simply did not appreciate it. Nobody ever did appreciate Ron, except for Harry and Hermione. How could he not go with them, wherever they went, to help defeat Voldemort? His mum didn't seem to understand. None of his family did.
None, that is, but Ginny. He was having a snack a little past one in the morning when she wandered into the kitchen in her night gown. Preparation for the wedding was insane these days, and it was rare that Ron got free run of the kitchen. He had to take his opportunities when he could.
"Hi," Ginny greeted sleepily, pouring herself a glass of water. They didn't talk much. But after she put her glass in the sink, Ginny came up beside him. "Just don't get your stupid self killed, okay? Nobody else manages to look after me nearly as obnoxiously as you." She kissed his cheek in an uncharacteristic show of affection and then left before he could even swallow his (too) large bite of ham sandwich and respond.
There — he'd remember this moment. And when he disliked her or hated her or was so righteously annoyed with her, he'd have something to remind him why, despite all else, he really did love her.
Harry might be his best mate, but Ginny was his first friend, after all.
iii. Dean Thomas
She made everything exciting.
She had this energy, this undeniable liveliness, this fierce brightness, and everything she did was done with a blazing expression and exuberant confidence. He could barely remember when she had been shy and timid, known only to him as Ron's baby sister. She was so much more than that, and the idea of putting shy or timid in the same sentence as Ginny Weasley was outrageous.
He wasn't sure when she first found an interest in him, but he noticed her in Dumbledore's Army. She had a boyfriend then, but it was impossible not to notice her. At fourteen years old, she was impossibly fast and fierce with her wand, had a wit quicker than anyone Dean knew and could even parry Seamus's quips, and her appearance seemed to dim all that of all others, with her long, bright red hair, warm, twinkling eyes, and devilish, infectious grin.
He flirted with her after he heard she had dumped Corner, and to his amazement, she flirted back. She wasn't coy like Parvati or obvious like Lavender or oblivious like his first girlfriend, a pretty Muggle named Sarah. She was something of each, and when he was deliberating on kissing her for the first time as they walked around the lake one afternoon a few days before the end of his fifth year, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.
Ginny knew what she wanted, and she did what she had to do to get it.
He admired that, at first. But it turned out that maybe Ginny was a little too fiery for him. She had an impassioned self-sufficiency that drove him crazy. She had to do, to handle, everything herself. She never talked to him when she was upset, and though at first he had simply thought her sunny personality kept her from being upset very often, months of dating taught him that such wasn't the case.
She simply kept some emotions, some thoughts and feelings, a little closer to her chest, and her inability to share those with him infuriated him. And when he was upset, more often that not he could see her biting back the urge to tell him simply to suck it up. (She had failed on more than one occasion, and those had been among their nastier of fights.)
When he told her about his father, she had gently held his hand in hers, had listened with soft, understanding eyes, and had kissed him sweetly afterwards. But when he didn't make the Quidditch team or he had detention or he was squabbling with Seamus, she just didn't have the patience to deal it. Ginny Weasley was an unstoppable force of nature, and she didn't have time for Dean's issues.
Truth be told, he might not have minded that or even minded how hard it was to grow truly close to her — he had patience, after all — if he hadn't felt the situation didn't apply to everyone. Ginny always had time for Luna and Hermione and the girl in her year with the ratty brown hair, and he knew she confessed her secrets and fears, at least in part, to them.
And then there was Harry. For a while, he didn't think she even realised it — realised the way she looked at him when he talked and smiled a little when his name was brought up in conversation. In more sullen moments, Dean would imagine that Ginny would be happy to pour her heart out to Harry. Ginny would have time for Harry.
Those sullen moments came more and more often as he finally understood the problem with his and Ginny's relationship: she was too fiery for him, and he wasn't fiery enough for her. They weren't the sort of couple that lasted past the hardships and all the ups and downs, not really. It made him a bit angry to acknowledge that she seemed to care less for him than he did for her, but in the end, he couldn't really blame her for leaving him for greener pastures.
After all, if anybody could handle feisty Ginny Weasley, it was the Chosen One.
iv. Neville Longbottom
It was the worst year of his life. It was also one of the best.
It was a painful, terrifying year full of anger, anxiety, and a healthy dose of fear. It was also a year of exhilarating resistance, of learning exactly who he was and what he was capable of. It was the year he learned to take pride and confidence in himself. It was the year he proved true the fact that he was a Gryffindor. It was, in short, the year that made Neville Longbottom a force to be reckoned with.
And the person who was right beside him for most of that year, the person who saw him grow up, and the person who did a lot of growing up herself, was Ginny Weasley.
She and Neville had never been particularly close. She went to the Yule Ball with him, and she was always nice, and she could always make him laugh, but over the years he continually thought of her through others. If it wasn't as Ron's little sister, it was Hermione's friend or Harry's girlfriend.
In his seventh year, as they battled the Carrows day in and day out, she became Neville's friend. She was his confidant and his co-conspirator, and if he had to choose one person to go through all of that with, it would be her. He was pretty sure if she wasn't labelled as Harry's so firmly in his mind, he might have fallen in love with her.
But the fact that no romantic feelings ever did arise didn't much matter. He could love her without being in love with her, and love her he did. Most of the others were willing to resist the Carrows, were willing to do what it took to fight and pay tribute to Dumbledore's Army, but only Ginny really understood that it was more than that. It was about playing their part in this war. If Harry, Ron, and Hermione had to fight, if Ginny's brothers and parents and Neville's Gran (and once upon a time, his parents, too) had to fight, then they would fight, too.
Ginny made anything possible. She made getting the sword possible. She made resistance possible. Nothing was too much. Nothing was impossible. She would get an idea, and a blazing expression would take hold of her features, and he knew there was no point in arguing. Things were going to happen her way. Things were going to get done.
It taught Neville a thing or two about going for what you wanted.
For inspiration, Neville looked to his wayward friends, to Ron and Harry and Hermione, hoping and waiting for the day they would return and help truly take back the school. But at the end of the day, he couldn't deny that it was Ginny that made the day bearable, and it was Ginny that taught him he was capable of making it through that day.
All the confidence he gained that year, however, disappeared in an instant when he found himself enamoured with sweet Hannah Abbott. At twenty three years old, having fought a war and happy and at peace with all aspects of his life, he was nonetheless reduced to a blushing, bumbling fool around her. He tried to flirt with her. Was he doing it right? Was she flirting back?
Oh, for Christ's sake, what was flirting? Was there an exact definition? Was there a particular method? What good was knowing every species of magical plant in England if he couldn't manage simple flirting?
"So," Ginny said. He had been leaning against the wall for a good hour now, unable to enjoy Harry and Ginny's engagement party because he was too busy noticing all the blokes who did seem to understand the concept of flirting and were currently using their vast knowledge to woo Hannah. Ginny came to stand beside him, and he felt a flush of guilt. This was a celebration for Harry and Ginny, not a Neville Laments Miserably pity party. "Not enjoying the party?" Ginny asked.
"Oh, no," he said hastily, "I'm — I'm just tired, is all."
"Mmm," she said. She didn't seem too upset. He was trying to think of something else to say, perhaps ask Ginny how Harry proposed and then pretend he hadn't already heard the story three hundred and twenty two times, but she went on. "Why don't you just ask her out, already?"
He choked on his Firewhiskey. "Um, I don't —"
"Ask her, Neville," she said, a little exasperated. "She can't say yes if you don't."
"She can't say no either."
"Neville, would you perhaps like me to ask her for you?" She blinked up innocently at him.
"You wouldn't actually . . .," he began, already imagining his mortification.
"What am I — twelve?" she said. "No, you dolt! I was trying to make a point. You don't need anyone to do anything for you. You can take care of your own business. Man up!" She smacked his shoulder. "You're embarrassing your fellow Gryffindors."
She left him alone after that. But she had done what had to be done, had reminded him that he was Neville Longbottom and what exactly that meant, and by the end of the night, he did what had to be done.
Hannah said yes.
His seventh year at Hogwarts was the worst year of his life. It was also one of the best, because Ginny Weasley helped make it that way.
v. James Sirius Potter
At an early age, James had determined — and from then on been well aware of the fact — that his mum's sole purpose in life was being his mum. How could there be an alternative?
It was his mum's job to lose sleep when he was sick. It was his mum's job to entertain him when he was bored. It was his mum's job to teach him how to read and write. It was his mum's job to send him baked goods by owl. It was his mum's job to listen to him lament the injustice of detention. It was his mum's job to buy him school supplies and new robes and give him allowance to take out that pretty Hufflepuff girl.
His dad had a similar purpose, but James knew, at least in theory, that beyond being James Sirius Potter's dad, his father was also Harry Potter — yes, the Harry Potter — and that was something to remember. But his mum? She was his mum. That's it. That's all.
When people talked about how they loved their mum or hated their mum or sort of liked her or got along with her or didn't get along with her — well, James never had much to add. He didn't feel one way or another about his mum. She was his mum. She got mad at him sometimes, sure. She put him in time out when he was little and misbehaved. She bought him an ice cream when he tripped and scratched his elbow in Diagon Alley. It was nothing special.
She. Was. His. Mum.
Did there really have to be more to the story?
Then she got sick.
It was so wrong. She couldn't get sick. How could she be his mum if she was sick? He was fifteen at the time, and he, Al, and Lily were all called to the Headmistresses' office. His mum had contracted a rare disease passed from the spores of some strange species of flower she had come across while visiting Aunt Luna on her expedition in Russia.
He wasn't too concerned until he was told she was in St. Mungo's and they would all be going there. He got one look at her and felt his insides twist away in terror. Her skin was coloured a dull orange and she had large purple splotches covering her. Worse still, she looked so impossibly tiny lying in the hospital bed, and his dad seemed so distressed at her state that James didn't know what to say or do. She was in the hospital for nearly two months.
James lost sleep over it.
He visited her every chance he got; McGonagall let him take off the weekends and evenings and any spare moment he had to do so. When she was able to stay awake for longer periods of time, he would read to her the Sports section of The Daily Prophet, desperate to do something, anything, for her, and she would give him a weak smile of acknowledgement. He tried to help Lily bake her some pastries one Saturday, the ones with coconut like she loved, and although they had nearly burnt down the house, she had eaten them with Dad helping her.
She got better eventually, and he was forced to go back to school and act like it had never happened. When he came home that Christmas, it almost seemed as if it hadn't. The house was exploding with Christmas decorations, loud Christmas music was playing throughout all the rooms, and she was baking up a storm, her face flushed with happiness as she greeted her children.
James was amazed. She was his mum again. He studied her as Winter break passed, and she never said anything about his odd behaviour. A few days after Christmas, though, she was making breakfast and sneezed. "Are you okay?" he demanded, jumping from his seat in alarm.
"I'm fine," she said, looking puzzled at his reaction. His shoulders slumped. At least no one else had been in the kitchen to see that. "James," she murmured, "you know I'm okay now, don't you? You and Al and Lily and Dad took good care of me. I'm all better."
"Right," he said. "Right. I know." He stared at the table.
When he and Al got up to leave the kitchen two hours later to meet some of his cousins, however, he paused at the door. His mum had turned on the wireless and was listening to a Quidditch match as she mechanically washed dishes. He checked to make sure Al was already heading down the hallway.
And then he crossed the large kitchen and hugged her. He dwarfed her now — he was even a little taller than his dad these days — and she was so small as he picked her up off the ground, clutching her. She was taken aback, he knew, but she hugged him back. She smelt like the fruity perfume she had always worn and the fresh bread she had been baking earlier. She smelt like his mum.
"Don't get sick again, okay?" he asked, speaking into her hair like he used to do as a sleepy little kid when he was so young she could still cart him around. He barely remembered that anymore.
"I'll do my best," she replied, stroking his hair. He put her down. He turned to go and was at the door once more when he paused a second time and glanced back at her. He had almost forgotten.
"Oh, hey, did you get a chance to wash my Muggle jeans yet?"
She shook her head fondly at him. What? It was what Mums were supposed to do.
vi. Albus Severus Potter
It simply wasn't fair. The only reason Albus couldn't marry his mum was because his dad had got to her first. Al hadn't been born yet. How could he have possibly won her over first? It frustrated his four-year-old self to no end.
Albus was small for his age. He was smaller than his brother and all his cousins. He was so small, he had heard his uncle Ron say, he could turn sideways and disappear from view. He'd tested it out that night. Dad had still seen him. But really, he was small.
He wasn't as quick as James or any of his other cousins, either, and he could never escape his aunts when they surrounded him during Sunday gatherings and cooed over his bright green eyes and how he looked so much like his dad. He didn't understand what they were talking about. His dad was big and strong and Al had been to his work and seen how he commanded a room.
Al would never be able to do that.
The only time he felt like more than the ever so small, messy-haired little boy who would never amount to anything or be as smart or as fast or as bright as his big brother was when he was with his mum. She sat him in her lap when he was little, and he fit so perfectly, as if he were small just for that purpose. She would read to him, making voices to go along, and she would squeeze him affectionately when he giggled.
He would hold her hand as they walked down the street and he would feel so proud walking with her. She would introduce him to all the Quidditch stars she knew, and he would smile shyly up at them. He didn't so much mind their cooing, not when his mum was right there beside him.
Things changed when he got older.
He couldn't help but feel as he passed through Hogwarts that he was, well, a disappointment to her. James was outgoing and had a new girlfriend every year and was the team's best Quidditch played in years and was, in summary, all things Gryffindor. Mum only ever laughed and scolded a little when he got in trouble again and again. But Al? He got decent grades, had a handful of friends, and was a pretty okay Keeper for Gryffindor.
But he was nothing special. His mum had been something special at school. His dad had been, too. James was. Lily was. But Al? He was the middle child, neither as clever as James nor as sweet as Lily, neither as outgoing as James nor as creative as Lily. He was perfectly and utterly normal.
He knew that had to disappoint to his mum. He knew it. His father was always saying how proud he was of Al, and Albus decided that he would prove himself by becoming like his father. He looked like him, and he would become like him: he would be an Auror and he would save lives and he would be easy-going but when he spoke seriously people would listen raptly. His mum could be proud of someone like that.
He was going to announce his ambition to be an Auror at dinner that night, his last night home for Winter break his sixth year. He was jittery with nerves, wondering what everyone would say. James was planning on being an Auror, too — after, that is, he finished his Quidditch career. (Al had seen the scouts at the Gryffindor matches lately. James really was his mother's son.)
There was a knock on his bedroom door, and without waiting for an answer, his mum peaked her head in. "Dinner ready?" he asked causally. When would be a good time to announce it? Right before? During dessert, maybe?
"No, I — actually, I was hoping I could talk to you."
He frowned. "Okay." She stepped into the room, closing the door and turning to him with an unreadable expression. "Is something the matter?" he asked, a little worm of nerves wiggling into his insides.
"Did you write this?" she asked, holding out a stack of parchment. He took it from her hesitantly, and alarm flooded him. He couldn't breathe. "Al?" she pressed.
It was his comic book, one he had been working on for years — purely for fun, of course. He would die before he'd show it to anyone. Nobody his age even read silly comics anymore, let alone drew and wrote their own. James would never let him hear the end of it. And his mum, of all people, had found it. Could there be a worse situation?
"Yeah," he mumbled, unable to meet her gaze.
"And you drew it all, too?"
"Yeah." His voice was barely more than a whisper.
"Al, this is amazing!" His eyes shot to her face. "How long have you been working on it? I can't believe you never showed it to me! The Muggle named Rob — that's based on your uncle Ron, isn't it? He's the funniest character — and Ron to a tee! Oh, and I love Bianca, I think she's my favourite. How did you come up with all this?" Her eyes were shining with excitement.
"I don't know," he said.
"It's so good! I wonder if we could get it published." He balked, and she noticed. "Don't you want to? You've got real talent, Al. I never even knew you liked drawing let alone were brilliant at it."
"It's just for fun," he whispered.
"Well, even if you never publish anything, you have to promise to let me read everything else you write. I can't believe this! My son, a writer. And you can draw, too! Have you ever seen me draw? I'm dreadful at it." She grinned at him. "And you've just created this whole little world on paper!"
"You really think it's good?" he asked.
"Of course I do! I'm so proud of you, Al."
He started to smile. "Really?"
"So much!" she said. "I mean, I've always been proud of you, and I always will be. I'd be proud of you if you spent your life carving wood figurines for tourists." She paused. "Well, actually, no I wouldn't — that would be spectacularly frustrating — but I'd still love you! But anyway, this — Al, this is definitely reason to be proud. . . ." She went on, but Al didn't really listen.
He felt like a little boy who was too small for anything but fitting perfectly into his mother's lap.
When he published his first comic book, he'd dedicate it to her.
vii. Harry Potter
He was never very quick on the uptake.
He learned over the years the list of people who knew he liked Ginny before he did. They included, but were not limited to: Hermione, Luna, Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Weasley, Neville, Dean, Lavender, George, Fred, Remus, Cho, and Hedwig. His owl knew he liked the girl before he did. (That's what Hermione told him, anyway; Hedwig apparently bit everyone's fingers, even Ron and Hermione's, and only ever put up with one person outside Harry — Ginny, which showed how perceptive she was. Harry decided to take Hermione's word for it.)
Once he realised how very much he liked her, however, it didn't matter how long it took him.
He still smiled a little when he remembered those handful of blissful weeks in his sixth year when he and Ginny were a couple, when everything was fun and exciting, when he learned what it was like to be carefree and learned how to snog a girl and learned what it felt like to have soft, warm lips press a kiss to the lightening bolt shaped scar on his forehead.
Those few weeks he learned what it was like to be a normal boy with a girl he liked. The year that followed was when he learned what it felt like to long for a girl he could have loved. The summer after that was when he learned what it meant to love a girl. And the years, the decades, that followed — that was when he learned what it was like to have a life.
Ginny was a life. She was his life. It seemed silly to say aloud, and his neck blazed at the corny thoughts that came to mind when he thought of Ginny — soul mates and you-complete-me and let me shower you with poetry and roses and sweets because you're my better half — but they were all true. He could never quite say all of that, though. He never really felt he could ever express how very much he loved her.
She knew anyway.
He bought her a pretty necklace and some new Quidditch gloves and told her with a sheepish shrug, "I love you," on her eighteenth birthday and that was all she needed. She knew. She understood. And that was why he loved her.
He wasn't sure why she loved him. He asked her once, asked her why she wanted him when she could have anybody, when he met her for one of her Hogsmeade visits in her seventh year. She'd laughed and laughed and laughed until she'd cried. "Because you just asked me that," she finally answered. He wasn't sure what that meant. It didn't really matter.
Harry didn't really like physical affection. But she showed him a new side of it. She ran her fingers through his hair and didn't stop him from returning the favour. She sat by him with her leg pressed to the length of his. She let her fingers play on his arm. She trailed kisses along the scars on his pale chest. That was typical of his relationship with Ginny: she showed him what he had never known or understood without his ever having to ask, because she just knew and cared enough to try.
He never really found a love for physical affection, at least, not from anyone but her.
Despite all this, when Danny Blue, the host of the popular Wizard radio show that came on at four in the afternoon every weekday, asked him why he loved Ginny, Harry was momentarily struck dumb. He, nearly sixty four years old, with three grown children, a few grandchildren, and a marriage that had just celebrated it's fortieth anniversary, stared blankly at Danny Blue.
He had only agreed to the stupid show because it was charity, and he, Hermione, and Ron had all decided years and years ago that they would each use their fame to do one charity event a year and no one had any right to ask any more of them. He had chosen Danny Blue this year, entering a contest with thirty seven other celebrities. People donated money towards the name of the celebrity they wanted to appear on the show, and the name that raised the most would.
The closest contestant to Harry had still been short four thousand and sixty two galleons. So there Harry was on the stupid show, being asked by the young, suspicious looking boy with a nose piercing why he loved his wife of forty years. What kind of cruel torture was this?
"I'm sorry," he said, "you want to know why I love my wife?"
"That's right," said Danny Blue, looking much more amused than he had any right to. "Betty Chambers from Nottingham wants to know why you love your wife. Well, Mr. Potter?"
"Er," Harry began. He knew nearly every member of the Weasley family was listening to this. Oh, bloody flobberworms. He tried to think, painfully aware of the soft buzz of the radio on live, and his mind flashed back to those sunny days in sixth year, to days floating on his back in the lake behind the Burrow with Ginny the summer after the war ended, to the day he held all seven pounds of tiny James in his arms for the first time.
"She gave me a family," he said slowly. He swallowed thickly and tugged on his collar. "But she . . . when I lose my temper and yell, she yells back. And the first thing she did when I saw her after that final battle was smack me for making her think I'd died. And she has this habit of chewing on her bottom lip, even after all these years." He paused.
He leaned forward. He had to make Danny Blue understand. "See, when I was really little, my aunt and uncle spent ten years telling me I was worthless, telling me that I was slow and — and that I was unlovable. I kind of really thought I was. But I kept waiting for someone to come and take me away from them and tell me I wasn't.
"It — it took a long time, but she found me eventually, you know? Or, no, I guess it just took me a while to realise that she had found me. And she showed me that I could love. And when — when Voldemort — he took away all ideas of a future from me," he said, the words tumbling out of him now, "but Ginny, she gave them back. And when I was eleven I told Hagrid — I told him that I was just Harry, but nobody ever treated me that way, not until Ginny. She's — does that make sense?"
"It does, Mr. Potter," Danny Blue said quietly, placing Betty Chamber's question card down. "Do you have anything else to add?" Harry remembered he was on the radio, and his swallowed back his embarrassment at the ramble he had just given. He hoped Betty was satisfied.
"Um, no. I think that covers it. Oh, well, she's also really good at cooking. Make's great Treacle Tart. But that's it." He sat back in his seat. Was the interview done now? It wasn't. There were another six questions, and finally Harry was allowed to go.
"You know," he told Danny Blue as he left, "the nose ring's kind of growing on me."
When he arrived home, there were already six owls waiting for him in the front room. He only had a chance to read Lily's short message as he walked — "God almighty, Daddy, way to make every girl in England swoon. You and Mum are so cute. I'll bring the boys over to play sometime soon" — before he reached the kitchen.
Ginny was making Treacle Tart. He grinned. "I make great Treacle Tart, you know," she told him, returning his smile. "It was even on the radio." He wrapped his arms around her. She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed his scar. His eyes flickered shut momentarily. When he opened them again, she was still smiling. "Tart smells good," he said. He wove his hands through her thick red hair. It hadn't dimmed in brilliance any over the years.
They didn't ever talk about the radio show. Why would they? She had already known everything he'd said. She always knew everything about him, even when he couldn't say it.
And he might be fairly slow on the uptake, but he had always known, too.
Fin.
The Gates of Happiness by MagEd
Chapter Notes: Harry Potter and company belong to J.K. Rowling, and I would never dare trying to claim otherwise. I write only for my own entertainment and mean no infringement on her rights!
Chapter Endnotes: And here's Ginny's "character study." She's a favourite character of mine, so I hope I did her justice. It was a little difficult to choose only seven men, but I like that number. Other men in the running but who were cut include Percy, Fred, Remus, and Michael Corner. I didn't want to make it "Why The Weasley Family Loves Ginny," however, and Dean seems more important than Michael while I deem Neville more important than Remus. But anyway -- please review?