“Love sought is good, but given unsought, is better.” -William Shakespeare (or Edward de Vere)
i. Lily Potter
She would kill for him.
She'd like to say that she would never kill for anyone or anything. But it wasn't true, not anymore. That little boy had a piece of her heart inside of him now. She had carried him for nine months, and when he left her, he took some of her heart with him ” some of her soul, really ” and she would protect him fiercely, no matter what it took.
Harry was an accident.
And she had found out entirely by accident. Marlene had just been killed and Lily was in St. Mungo's. She could hear Sirius and James talking in hard voices with Dumbledore right outside the door. The Healer had come in, checked her vitals, and then assured her that she would make a full recovery and her baby was just fine. Baby? She had barely been able to grasp the concept. She was a kid. She and James were kids. And they were in a war! She couldn't have a baby. No. The Healer was wrong. Lily was not pregnant. No. She refused to be pregnant.
Unfortunately, James told her, babies and such didn't quite work that way. Once you were pregnant, you couldn't simply refuse. There was a strict no return policy. She mumbled that there was actually one. He stared at her long and hard.
And she had known that there was a return policy, but there was no way she could do it. Months later, holding her son in her arms, she couldn't fathom how she had ever, even for a moment, considered an alternative. Harry was the most beautiful boy this world had ever seen.
He was tiny, much tinier than chubby Neville, and he rarely cried. His large green eyes blinked up at her, and she saw herself in him, and then she touched his messy dark hair, and she saw James, and she clutched him to her heart and felt, realised, knew, accepted, that he was her heart.
It had seemed impossible to have a baby during a war. As months passed and Harry grew older, however, Lily knew that it would have been impossible to survive the war without a baby. As the days grew darker and the Order of the Phoenix grew smaller and their hope grew bleaker, Lily could depend on little, innocent Harry to cheer her up. He was oblivious to the evil around him, and when he ran amok on his tiny toy broom, chasing the cat, she felt as if the war were nothing, as if they merely had to hold out and it would all be okay.
Harry was hope.
She knew James felt the same way.
When Lily learned that Dorcas Meadows had been killed, she had spent the entire night watching over Harry. She had brought him into her bedroom and set him down on a pillow. James lay on Harry's other side, and all through the night they lay there, saying little as they stared at their innocent little boy.
James talked about the future all the time. He talked about when Harry was in Gryffindor and when he played Quidditch and when he had mates like Sirius and when he took the world by storm . . . and it reminded Lily to believe in the future, despite all the reasons not to. She might shake her head at James and his grand schemes for Harry's future, but when James wasn't looking, she would coo to Harry about how he'd be a Quidditch star like his daddy and how she knew he would make her proud.
She couldn't stop crying when he called for her Ma for the first time. She couldn't stop crying when Dumbledore told her of a prophesy that could be about Harry. She couldn't stop crying when she waved Harry's chubby little fist at the other Order members as she and James went into hiding.
"Stop crying so much," James said. "You're scaring Harry. Poor bloke'll be afraid of blubbering girls for the rest of his life." She didn't stop crying. But she hugged James tighter, and she showered Harry with an extra ten kisses as she tucked him to sleep that night.
He was such a sweet boy. He laughed so much, at every face James made and every kiss Lily gave him and every time the cat ran screeching from the room. He needed her so much, and it made her so much stronger to know that he depended on her.
Harry was hers.
She would always take care of him.
She would even kill for him, if it came down to it.
Of course, in the end, she didn't kill for him. She died for him.
ii. Hermione Granger
He didn't even realise the sort of person he was.
She would never admit it to anyone, but September first her very first year, the year she entered the magical world with her brand new wand clutched tightly in her hand and her parents waving goodbye, she was scared. What if she couldn't live up the standards of other Witches and Wizards? What if she wasn't any good at magic? What if she didn't make any friends?
But she did make friends. It wasn't an instantaneous friendship, but by the end of her first year, she realised something absolutely amazing: she, Hermione Granger, had two best friends. They were troublemakers, of course, but they were her friends.
Truth be told, most of the reason she grew close to Ron, though, was because she grew close to Harry. She wasn't even sure how it happened, her relationship with Harry. He was always nice to her, but he was always nice to everybody. For some reason, however, he started to talk to her more than he talked to anybody but Ron. He would smile and laugh around her, and she was smart enough to notice he didn't do that around most people.
He didn't always have much to say, and he never demanded very much of her, but that was okay with her. She imagined Harry to be the faithful friend that never said a word because he didn't have to, because everyone knew when the going got tough, he would be there. Harry's affection was the steady, unwavering kind.
She never fancied him. The first boy who had really made her blush was Ron, not Harry. It seemed so unreasonable. Harry was much nicer than Ron (on most days, anyway) and he listened to her (usually) and was in general a more considerate boy. Ron was much more unpredictable, much more hot and cold, and at times she was sure she could never love him considering how very much she hated him.
But she wouldn't have been able to get through any of that, through her rocky relationship with Ron, if it hadn't been for Harry. Because while she was trying to decide if she even liked Ron let alone loved him, while she was trying to sort through her feelings, while she was trying not to throttle Lavender Brown violently as the floozy slept, it was Harry who kept her sane.
Harry, with his calm, steady, silent affection, reminded her that it would always be okay.
She wished she could do the same for him. Sometimes, especially the older they got, he would get so angry. He would be frustrated and furious and he would yell and shout and his eyes would blaze. She tried to emulate him in those moments, to stand by him and show him the unfaltering love and loyalty he gave to her, and she hoped it helped.
Of course, even when he was feeling terribly and acting it, too, he always came around, and she never doubted that he cared for her and Ron. He yelled and screamed and blew a fuse when he arrived at Grimmauld place. But after he was done, he assured the adults that of course he would tell Ron and Hermione everything. That defined him, really.
And he didn't even know it.
When Ron had left them and Harry was so sullen he could kill someone with pure moroseness, she stood by him with the kind of loyalty and love that he had taught her, that he had always given her, despite the craziness that surrounded Krum and Umbridge and Lavender Brown. He might be a right prat most days, but she knew if, at any moment, there was any reason to doubt her, he wouldn't. He was still her best friend.
She tried not to cry in front of him during those days, but she couldn't help herself. He never said anything about it, and for that she was grateful. One night, however, he did. She had been trying to muffle the noise in her pillow, when all of the sudden his voice floated through the darkness. "Hermione?" She stiffened.
"What?" she asked, working to keep her voice steady. "Is something the matter?"
"No," said Harry. He paused. She waited for more. She half expected no response, as he had little to say these days. "Thank you," he whispered. She didn't ask for what.
"You're welcome," she replied. They didn't talk about it again. How could she tell him that his thanks was unnecessary because standing by him was the least she could do after everything he had done for her? Harry was the person who expected little of the people around him but was willing to give them the world if they wanted. But he deserved better than that. She knew it. Ron did, too, even if he needed someone to remind him.
Harry had always stood by her and he always would, and she would return the favour.
Hermione loved Ron fiercely, but Harry was her best friend.
And she doubted he even knew why. (It didn't matter.) That was, after all, who he was.
iii. Minerva McGonagall
There were rabble rousers, there were troublemakers, there were chronically misbehaved students, and then there were those with a flagrant disregard for all rules large and small. Harry Potter was of the final category. His appearance was deceptive, as most often are. He didn't talk much in class; he didn't incite fights or make a fool of himself for the sake of it. He rarely disrupted lessons and was, for all intents and purposes, a normal, average, unassuming student.
But to have that impression of Harry was not to know the boy at all.
When Minerva first met him, he reminded her of his mother. He had Lily's same modest, sweet nature. By the time he was running around the castle at all hours, fighting trolls, and asking questions he should not be asking, she had come to see him as James Potter in all his glory. She had no doubt the long forgotten Marauders would be quite proud of their little protégé.
As the years passed, Minerva learned that Harry was neither his mother nor his father, but some kind of combination of the both. Of course, in the ways that mattered most, James and Lily had been very alike. They had both had tempers, as did Harry. They had both been stubborn beyond belief, as was Harry. They had both been well liked by most but had preferred the company of a beloved few, just like Harry. They had both believed fiercely in what was right, as did Harry.
They had both enamoured Minerva to them without ever meaning to, as did Harry.
Minerva prided herself on being a fair professor, someone who would truly teach her students. She didn't let them get away with sub par work, no matter who they or their parents were. She pushed them to work harder, to achieve more, and to make the most of their knowledge and power.
But over the years, she grew attached to certain students. Harry was one of them. Perhaps it was because he reminded her of his parents. Perhaps it was because he was everything a Gryffindor was supposed to be. Perhaps it was because he had suffered so much and still was day in and day out, but he could still appear to be perfectly normal, average, and unassuming.
Perhaps it was because he wanted to be perfectly normal, average, and unassuming.
Minerva had never found a reason for or an interest in fame, and she felt assured this was something in which she and Harry agreed. Fame, she knew, did little for a person, and Harry was well aware of that fact. It made her protective of him; she wanted to do anything and everything she could to protect him from the journalists and busybodies who would wish to make a spectacle of him.
It was strange, really, how deeply she had come to care for him. She had never played with him as a small child growing up or taken care of him when he was scared or sick. She had never had a long talk with him or enjoyed a day with him. But when Hagrid had held a supposedly dead Harry in his arms, it had taken the breath from her lungs.
When he came to her a few weeks after the final battle and told her he would not be returning to Hogwarts, she was taken aback. But he didn't waver under her gaze. He had made his decision. She looked at him and she saw Dumbledore. And then she saw something else entirely.
"Very well," she said. He probably expected her to put up a protest. She didn't. "I appreciate you taking the time to tell me yourself." She paused. "I will miss having you as a student, but I know you will do well as an Auror. I have always believed that." She smiled.
He did, too. "Thanks, Professor." If she were someone else, perhaps like Molly Weasley, she would have wanted to speak more with him or tell him how much he meant to her or hug him. But she had never been that sort of person.
"You may call me Minerva now, Harry. We are equals."
He glanced back at her, his hand on the door knob. "I ” I don't know if I can, honestly." He shrugged sheepishly. "You're my professor. You'll always be my professor." He left, and she smiled slowly as she returned to her work. She realised, then, that Harry didn't remind her of Dumbledore. He reminded her of herself.
After all, looking back at her own years as a student at Hogwarts, she couldn't very well deny she'd once had a certain . . . disregard for the rules.
iv. Cho Chang
He was so much like Cedric, yet he was so much the opposite, too.
She didn't know much about him, beyond what most people did. He seemed like a sweet enough boy, though. She had felt guilty turning him down for the Yule Ball, but she had a date, and Harry wouldn't have trouble finding a girl, no matter how adorably nervous he had been asking her.
It all spiralled out of control after that terrible day. She barely knew up from down. The one thing that didn't change from one year to the next was Harry. He was still nervous around her, still liked her, still had that unknowing charm to match his crooked smile. It was nice, having one thing stay the same when all else familiar had abandoned her.
And when she looked at Harry, when she heard about the things he had done, she saw Cedric. She saw his bravery. She saw how he never had to brag, how he was confident in who he was, how he was beloved by so many but enjoyed the company of his closest friends more often than not.
It might have been wrong ” and she did feel a little guilty about it ” but being with Harry made her feel better. She didn't know if it was because he reminded her that some things didn't change or because he reminded her of Cedric or because, most poetically, he reminded her that life went on.
It became clear quickly, however, that she knew very little of Harry and he of her. Of course, that's how most relationships started.
She imagined she could fall in love with him. She didn't really know him yet, but he was so good to her, and he forgave her for that disastrous date, and even though he couldn't talk about Cedric, well, maybe it was better that way. She thought that maybe as they got to know one another, he would show her the same loyalty he showed Hermione, and he would stand by her and defend her and take care of her ” just like Cedric had.
She needed somebody to take care of her, that much she couldn't deny, and she thought maybe she could help Harry, too. She would fight in Dumbledore's Army with him and they would revenge Cedric together. He didn't know anything about girls or dates or love, but she would patiently help him through it all, and she would support him and love him and it would all be the way it was supposed to. She would have her second shot at a happy ending.
But she wouldn't.
She never really had the chance to love him. The problem, she eventually concluded, was simple: Harry was a tragic hero. It was written into his skin (literally) and like all tragic heroes, it spelt out an unhappy end for him and everyone who loved him. She couldn't deal with that.
That wasn't anything bad, she knew. But it was a requirement for loving Harry, for being a part of his life in any way at all. Harry was a tragic hero, a courageous, determined, fiery tragic hero, and those who surrounded him were those also willing to lose everything. The people who surrounded Harry, people like Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, were those willing to sacrifice their hearts and their lives because they imagined that maybe, just maybe, they might be able to take away a little of the tragedy.
When she found herself with Michael Corner, everything seemed to fit a little better. Michael had courage, but he wasn't the sort who led a short and fiery life and left her to cry over his dead body. He wasn't the sort to make the history books, and that was what Cho needed.
There was absolutely nothing tragic about Michael Corner.
She fought in the final battle, because she wasn't entirely spineless and because a part of her did want to pay tribute to Cedric and be the sort of person Harry could like and respect. She survived it, and she tried to salvage her friendship with Harry, and she was happy for him when she went to his wedding.
Her last twinge of regret came on that day ” regret that maybe she really could have found love with Harry and had a happy ending (had the happy ending that was playing out right before her eyes) if only she had been brave enough. She had yet to find love with someone else.
In the end, though, she knew maybe she could have fallen in love with Harry (she probably had, truth be told), but Harry wouldn't have been able to love her, not really. He would always be the boy who bent his head and whispered in secret conspiracy with Ron and Hermione nearly every day of his Hogwarts career. He would always be the boy who had a silent battle of wills with Umbridge. He would always be the boy who was willing to die to save the world.
He would always be the boy who needed someone like Hermione Granger or Ginny Weasley not only to love him but to fight beside him. Cho couldn't be that person. She could be brave, but not brave enough.
Eventually, Cho met Stanley Collins. He was a Muggle. He fixed clocks. He was nothing like Michael, Harry, or Cedric. They lived happily ever after.
v. Molly Weasley
He was hers. It wasn't up for discussion. Ever.
Children needed love. They needed someone to care when they were sick or weren't eating well or were scared or frustrated. They needed unwavering support and plenty of attention. They needed a mother. And Molly had decided when he was barely twelve that she would take up the mantle and do for little Harry Potter what no one had since his own dear, sweet mum had died.
After all, it was blatantly obvious that those so-called relatives of his had neglected him sorely on every count, and he, just like her own beloved boys, needed love. She had plenty to spare, especially for such a small, quiet boy who her own son proudly called his mate.
Harry never resisted her affection, but he never seemed particularly touched by it, either. He never showed a need for her love. She gave it anyway, because she was plenty shrewd enough to see past the brave faces little boys put on, and she hoped one day he would realise that she was always there for him if need be. He never asked anything of her, seemed always pleasantly surprised at the gifts she would give him, and always blushed under her praise.
She almost wished he did ask things of her, never seemed surprised, and was more than ready for her praise. It would make his poor childhood less evident. It would give her a chance to imagine that he hadn't always been so unloved. Of course, when she recognised all this, it only steeled her determination to make up for all the years of negligence put upon him.
And as he continued to spread time with her son and at her house and among her family, she grew to care more and more for him. He had the sweetest crooked little smile, and he was fiercely loyal to her family, and he was always nice to Ginny, who ” the poor dear ” was terribly endeared to him.
She hadn't been able to sleep the night after that final contest in the Triwizard Tournament. She had stared at the ceiling, remembering how Harry had folded in her arms, had cried openly, had let her rock him and care for him and pour every bit of love she had into him. He finally allowed himself to be loved the way he deserved, the way he only ever let Ron and Hermione love him (and that was surely unintentional). She knew in that moment that she thought of him as her own.
He needed her. He had done so much for the world, he had done so much for her family, yet so little was done for him. She wanted him to come and stay with her. She imagined what it would have been like if he could have been hers from the moment he lost his parents. But Dumbledore was adamant that he had to stay with the Dursleys.
Still, he was an honorary Weasley.
Losing her parents was hard. Losing her brothers was harder. But losing Fred had completely devastated her, and for weeks she couldn't fathom how she could go on living when so clearly her heart had been torn from her chest and was lying bruised and bloodied on the ground. She came to peace with it slowly, although she knew she would never really be whole again.
The world kept turning and life went on, her children moved on and started their lives fresh, and she learned to live again. One breezy Tuesday afternoon late in the summer, she caught Harry and Ginny talking on the couch, Ginny's right foot splayed ever so causally over Harry's left foot, their ankles crossing and his hand playing comfortably with a lock of stray red hair as they discussed something about Quidditch.
Her heart stopped for a moment and then began beating with a new kind of strength.
That same sudden burst of happiness returned years later, brought by the same two sweet children.
Harry was hopping around the bedroom, delirious with delight, while Ginny watched on with a flushed, sweaty face, her first child, born only minutes ago, clutched tightly to her chest. "I can't believe it," Harry said. Molly smiled fondly at him as he finally settled onto the bed beside Ginny and she leaned into him. "Look at him, Mum, look at him ” Ginny and I have a baby. We made a person."
She stared at him, at how very unaware he seemed of anything but his son, and she felt herself tearing up. She had always secretly wanted him to call her that ” but of course he wouldn't until it slipped out in his excitement. "He's beautiful," she told him, brushing the back of his head.
He grinned, his eyes bright as he gazed at James, who flailed a random limb in the air. "I've got a family," he said, his voice awed.
"Yes," she replied. "Yes, you do."
vi. Lily Luna Potter
There were a great many things she could see from her father's shoulders.
It was a whole different world up there. It was her favourite place, and whenever they went anywhere, she insisted she be allowed to climb up. He would always let her. He let her get away with most things (that's what Jamie said, anyway).
There were lots and lots of things her daddy couldn't do very well. He wasn't very good at putting her hair in pigtails the way Mummy could, and his cookies always tasted funny, and he simply couldn't read the voices right in The Tales of Beedle the Bard like Mummy. But Lily loved him anyway.
When Jamie and Allie said that she couldn't play with them, Daddy always would ” he would play whatever she wanted. Sometimes they would dress up like princesses and sometimes they would play dragon hunters and sometimes they would play Hogwarts and she would be the professor and he would be the student and he promised not to tell Mummy when her play Potion kit set the carpet on fire. And sometimes if she was really, really good, he would take her out on his Firebolt and fly around and it would be so, so, so much fun.
One afternoon when they were out shopping, she saw through the pet shop window that a Crup had just had puppies, and she looked up at her daddy and begged him to let her have one. She would take the best care of it, she promised, and she would love it and make sure it didn't do anything bad.
Mummy had yelled a lot when Daddy walked into the house with Lily in one arm and a Crup in the other. She let Lily keep Scout, though, and that's why Lily loved both her daddy and her mummy. (Jamie said he wanted a Crup, too, if Lily got one, but Mummy had firmly said one was plenty. Lily had stuck her tongue out at him and then hid behind Daddy's leg.)
Lily always believed her daddy could do anything.
When she arrived at Hogwarts and people pointed and whispered and Jamie merely shrugged at the attention, clearly used to it, Lily quickly learned that most of the world agreed that her father could do anything. Growing up, her aunts and uncles had told her stories about the grand adventures her daddy had gone on, and sometimes when they were being nice, her brothers would let her be Aunt Hermione while they were daddy and Uncle Ron, and they would save the world in the backyard.
She never really understood, however, what had actually happened.
She read all the books in the library she could find ” Great Wizards and Witches of the Twentieth Century, The Collected History of Tom Riddle, The Unauthorised Guide to the Life of Harry Potter and The Women Who Changed the Course of the War ” and they revealed a whole new world to her.
It left her with so many questions. Her mum had once told her dad's scar on his hand came from feeding his vegetables under to the table to his pet Crup when he was little. Lily swore never to do the same again. But her mum had been lying, hadn't she? She decided to ask Teddy about it. He told her a little, and he said it didn't matter.
He was right. Her daddy might have saved the world, but he was still her daddy, he was still the man who hadn't simply hung the moon but who had made it himself, and the rest, well, maybe it didn't matter so much.
Years passed, and the things the great Harry Potter had done before she was born were of little importance to her. What mattered was the fact that he didn't mind when she dyed her hair purple, that he refused to be even a little nice to Jake, her first boyfriend (honestly, she didn't even know how he was able to hold a glare that long), and that he came to every single one of her Quidditch matches.
And her father saving the world certainly didn't matter as much as the time he saved her. It wasn't until then that she realised ” even allowed herself to comprehend ” what her father had gone through. It all happened with the most simple of traps: a forged letter from Rosie, asking if Lily could meet her in Hogsmeade that Saturday because they needed to talk.
Rosie and Lily were vastly different people, but she was Lily's closest female cousin. She begged off from her friends and went to the Hog's Head, just as Rosie had asked.
Rosie wasn't there.
A tall man in mussed robes, his dark hair billowing to his shoulders and his teeth blackened, however, was there. Lily was abducted before she even knew what was happening, and the terror that followed was absolute. His nails were long when they dug into her skin as he shouted at her, and he told her all sorts of terrible things, and when she bit his arm to try and get away from whatever dank, dark place he had taken her, he hit her again and again until her vision blurred and went black once more.
All her ideas of adventure and fighting evil and being as courageous as her parents and aunts and uncles faded into nothing as she sat alone, dreading his return to wherever she was, with her knees drawn to her chest and her chin tucked in.
When the door opened again, the man who walked through had dark hair, but the similarities ended there. "Daddy!" She threw her arms around him, and she didn't let go. He said her name over and over again and pressed his lips to her hair. She closed her eyes and let him carry her away from whatever nightmare she had stumbled into.
The majority of the Weasley and Potter family were up in arms at her return, but she could barely process anything. Her mum and Rosie helped her get cleaned up, and she clung to them as they washed off the dirt and blood and terror, and that night she slept in her parents' bed for the first time since she was a toddler, glorying in the feel of her mother's hands stroking her hair reassuringly.
It was all explained to her ” that Rabastan Lestrange had been the last known Death Eater not dead or imprisoned, and he had taken her in his last crazy attempt to destroy Harry Potter. She didn't really want to know the details. She learned that Lestrange was dead. She didn't want to know more. She played Quidditch with her brothers and cousins, it felt like they were little kids again, and it made everything better in a way little else could.
Everything went back to normal. Everything, that is, but her father. He couldn't look her in the eye. The night before she was meant to go back to school, he came into her bedroom. She automatically tensed at the sound of the door opening (she was sleeping with her wand these days), but she recognised the soft shuffle of feet as belonging to her father.
He sank down on the bed and ran a hand lightly over her head. "I'm so sorry, Lily," he whispered. "I'm so, so sorry." His voice broke a little. He thought she was asleep. He would never cry in front of her otherwise.
"Daddy," she whispered, opening her eyes. He was startled. "What's there to be sorry for? You saved me, just like I knew you would." She blinked up through the darkness at him.
"But if it weren't for me, for my history, you wouldn't have been ”"
"If you weren't you," she argued, "I wouldn't be me, and I like me almost as much as I like you. C'mon, Daddy. I know Mum can't possibly be letting you get away with thinking like that." She smiled a little up at him. "You saved me. You'll always save me, right?"
"Right," he said, his voice hoarse.
She sat up and hugged him, and then she pulled back so she could lean up and kiss the faded scar on his forehead. It was something she had been doing since she was a little girl and had seen her mother do it. "Stay until I fall asleep, okay?" she asked.
He nodded.
He didn't just show her the world. He gave it to her.
vii. Ginny Weasley
Harry liked attention.
He didn't like fame or hearing his name whispered or people taking his picture or asking for his autograph or aspiring to be him or know him. No, the attention Harry sought was the attention most people took for granted. He liked holding her hand. He liked putting his head in her lap. He liked it when she would toy with his hair. He liked it when she would brush her fingers over his scar. He liked it when she simply sat close enough to touch him, whether it was his arm against hers or her back to his legs.
He was timid, at first, about physical affection, but she encouraged it, and he seemed to bloom under all the attention. It made her sad to imagine how little he had received over the years. It also made her intent on making up for the past. He would never be without affection again, not as long as she was around.
It also amazed her. How could someone go through everything he had, and still be so normal? Parts of him were broken, she knew, but none of it was beyond repair. He was quiet and guarded around strangers, but he wasn't unkind or unresponsive. He still smiled and laughed and obsessed about Quidditch as if he honestly had nothing more to worry about.
She hoped maybe a part of the reason he could be okay was because he had someone to tell . . . because he had her. But it was more than that, too. Harry was something else.
And then he was gone. She knew he would be. All the adults, her brothers and parents included, had been discussing (worriedly) how likely it was that Harry would take Ron and Hermione and disappear. Ginny knew her mother tried her hardest to prevent it. But they took off at the wedding, and they looked like different people when they returned. They probably were.
She was a different person, too. The whole world was different. But she and Harry made it back to each other.
After that, they had more than a few weeks together. She gave him all the attention he needed. He gave her so much more. He was infuriatingly clueless sometimes, insanely stubborn, put himself in all sorts of dangerous situations in order to save a world that was already very much indebted to him, but, though she'd never admit it to him, she loved him despite it all.
In fact, she loved him because of it all.
"He brought it! He brought it!" he shouted, running into the house at a speed she hadn't seen him possess in years. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to him, slightly amused at how excited he looked. He was wearing the square spectacles James's youngest daughter had bought him because "They're in, Grandpa ” nobody wears round glasses anymore," and the back of his thick white hair stuck up. He clutched a long, thin, package, wrapped neatly with brown paper and twine. Al walked in after him a moment later.
"About time," she said, taking off her apron, trying to keep her own heart from pounding too quickly. She kissed Al's cheek and then started laughing at how eagerly Harry tore the package open, and they both stared down at his Firebolt, recently fixed. There were newer models, and Al had offered to buy Harry whichever one he wanted.
Harry had said he simply wanted his Firebolt, which had been flying slightly to the left and sinking every few minutes for decades, fixed. So Al had it fixed. "Want to have a go?" Harry asked, his face shining.
"What?" Al asked. "You're not serious."
Ginny whacked him in the back of the head. "Why do you think we wanted it fixed?
She grinned and followed Harry out of the kitchen, onto the back porch, and then out into the backyard. It was twice the size of the house, their backyard, and once upon a time it had been full of their children and nieces and nephews playing Quidditch. On Sundays, it filled with their grandchildren and great nieces and nephews. For now, however, it was calm and quiet.
Al came after them, frowning. "Just be careful, okay? And don't go too high."
"We know how to fly," Ginny said.
"I know, Mum, I know," Al assured. "But you're a little . . .," he paused, "past your prime flying age."
"Don't make me smack you again," she said, glaring at him. He held his hands up defensively.
"Just be careful, okay?"
Harry climbed on the broom, and then helped Ginny climb on in front of him. "I want to steer," she said, gripping the broom tightly. Her mind flashed back to her days as a Harpy.
"No, no, I'm steering first," Harry insisted.
"Ladies first," she argued.
"No." He took off. The sudden rush of wind made Ginny's eyes water, and she leaned forward as Harry did, too. Al shouted something beneath them. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him waving his arms around wildly.
"Go faster," Ginny told Harry. He did. She laughed. And he squeezed his arms around her slightly, pressing a sloppy kiss to the back of her neck, liked he used to do when they would go flying together as kids. "Faster!"
When they landed, Harry stumbled slightly, and Ginny nearly fell off the broom.
"Whoa!" Al said, rushing to them. "There's a reason you stop flying when you're eighty years old!" he said, gripping her arm and helping her off the broom.
"Stop being silly," Ginny told him, patting his shoulder.
"Silly! You're not a ” a ” a spring chicken anymore, Mum! You either, Dad!"
"Spring chicken?" Ginny repeated, amused. Her eyes flickered to Harry.
"You know what I mean!"
"That was amazing!" Harry exclaimed, his hair tousled and his square spectacles crooked on his face as he grinned widely. She laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. Sweat trickled over his scar. She wiped it away, and as he leaned down and kissed her, the sound of Al ranting in the background faded away.
Flying was a reminder of everything, of the bright, breezy summer after that terrible year, of dancing at Hermione's wedding even when she was seven months pregnant, her swollen feet on Harry's, of playing house with four year Lily and watching James's first Quidditch match in his third year, of refusing to help Harry with the catch on her bra the very first time and laughing so hard she cried when he began cursing at his inability to unhook it.
"You know," Al said loudly, "I fixed the broom so you could have a casual fly! Not so you could get yourselves killed!" Ginny ignored him. Al made a strange choking sound. "Honestly, the only two people stupid enough to do that are both my parents! I'm glad you two have found each other!" He stomped off.
"I'm glad we found each other, too," Harry said, kissing her nose. She laughed. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the mouth.
Harry's eyes flickered to the side and the Firebolt that hovered a little above the ground. "You want to go again?" he whispered into her lips.
"Only if I steer."
When he picked her up off the ground and swung her around, shouting about rookie flyer of the year, the best Harpy in years, while she laughed, she knew Harry didn't really need so much attention anymore. She didn't care. She'd give it to him anyway.
But she was so steering next time.
Fin.
But Given Unsought by MagEd
Chapter Notes: All things Harry Potter are the property of J.K. Rowling, and I'm merely playing with her toys. I promise to return them in pristine condition.
Chapter Endnotes: I had a little more trouble writing this one and actually wrote three different scenes for Ginny's section, but I hope you like the end result. The other women who were cut were Luna (I'm really disappointed I couldn't do her, but I'm thinking of actually doing a whole story for her) and Romilda (just because I thought it would be fun!) Please review!