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Chapter Text

Ginny was 35 years old, happily retired from professional Quidditch, utterly fabulous, and completely unhappy in her marriage.

This was, perhaps, somewhat to be expected. Getting married to someone you had idolised your entire life at the tender age of 21 is generally considered to be ill-advised. In fact, Ginny might go so far as to say that going on to marry someone whom you had met in school nearly immediately after fighting in a war together was all-around a bad idea.

Still, she couldn’t begrudge her years with Harry. Not totally, anyway. She adored their two sons, James and Al, and their daughter, Lily. She adored them more than she adored the whistle of wind in her ears when she was diving after the Quaffle. She adored them so much that she had been willing to give up her career with the Holyhead Harpies to educate them full-time. Harry, of course, had refused to allow her to do this. “They need to have some kind of Muggle education. You’ve seen the way that Ron keeps the accounts at Weasley Wizard Wheezes. Our children need to have some understanding of maths, Gin,” Harry had said. Ginny didn’t know exactly why maths were so important, but this argument wasn’t worth rehashing over and over again. Ledgering charms worked perfectly well on their own household accounts, but Harry wouldn’t listen.

So, Ginny had bit her tongue and signed her children up for the nearest primary school.

Convincing her children to get behind the idea had been a whole other challenge, but that’s best left for another time. Also, the struggles and tantrums involved with wrangling three children under the age of ten to a primary school when they can make your hair permanently frizzy in a fit of pique (and no amount of Sleekeazy’s could turn it right again) are not the travails of the utterly fabulous. No. This she left to Harry, whose hair was already untameable.

Ginny had tossed around the idea of becoming a Quidditch reporter for the Daily Prophet, had even covered the 2014 Quidditch World Cup for them (and been lambasted by that old hag Rita Skeeter when Harry had shown up to the match with a giant cut and matching bruise across his face – she’d told him to drink a Wiggenweld before leaving that morning, but he never did listen), but had decided it wasn’t for her.

Now, she mostly kept herself flush with the odd product endorsement and guest commentator gig, mainly in the American Quidditch League. She’d always loved playing across the pond, as the Muggles said, where she was known as “the most brilliant Chaser in history” and not simply “Harry Potter’s wife.” It was completely gratifying to be known for something other than marrying her schoolgirl crush.

She was Ginny Weasley-Potter, and she would do something fabulous with her time.

This did not include picking up her husband’s dirty socks, his blood and mud-covered Auror’s robes, Lego bricks and stray play-potions ingredients left around by her children or cooking for a horde. And today was the day that she was going to tell her husband that.

“Wotcher,” Harry said as he stepped out of the fireplace that evening. He was always a bit of an awkward duckie, but “wotcher”? Seriously? After 15 years of marriage?

Ginny sighed through her nose, not bothering to rise from her squashy armchair in the sitting room. “I know that you’re having an affair,” she said simply, crossing her arms across her chest.

Harry had the grace to look ashamed. “Listen, Gin, I can explain,” he started, but she cut him off with a glare. Harry swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing. If she strained her eyes, Ginny could just about make out the love bite forming under his left ear.

“Save it,” Ginny said. “I know that you’re having an affair, and have done for years. I’ll leave you to find a way to explain to our children and our family that you’ve been sleeping with Draco Malfoy behind my back.” Two light spots appeared in Harry’s brown cheeks. He was blushing now, and it took all of Ginny’s willpower not to find this charming. She would not be charmed by this man. Not when she was this miserable. “I’m not angry anymore. I just don’t want to keep living like this, with an unavailable and uncommunicative husband and three children sapping the life out of me with no help from their father!”

Ginny watched Harry’s hackles rise. “That’s not bloody fair, Gin, and you know it,” he said hotly. “I do all the school things, even now that I’m up for promotion and the head has just been looking for reasons to disqualify me. I’ve never been a neglectful father – I’ve never spent even an evening away from them, which is a right sight more than what you can say.”

“I’m sorry that the American Quidditch League doesn’t hold matches in the back garden, dear,” Ginny said, her heart thundering in her ears. “Nevertheless, I’m leaving. The children are nearly old enough to be at Hogwarts. That’s quite old enough to understand that Mummy is leaving because Daddy doesn’t love her anymore.” Ginny took a deep breath, smoothing her hair back from her face as her voice rose. “I’m certain that it’s for the best. You and Draco can go on and have a relationship in public, especially since Malfoy’s wife left him last year.”

Harry raked a hand through his hair, making it stand up on end in wild tangles. “I can’t believe that you’re leaving me,” he said, collapsing onto the sofa. “I always thought that – ”

“That you’d leave me?” Ginny said bitterly. “Or that we’d live forever in marital bliss promised to the Chosen One after saving the entire Wizarding World from a racist megalomaniac?”

“No,” Harry said forcefully, hanging his head and bracing his elbows against his knees. “I just – I just thought that – that we were happy. That you were happy.”

Ginny sat back in her chair. She had the impulse to suck on the ends of her hair suddenly, just like she did when she was a child. There was a long silence, and she thought she could see Harry staring over at her from under his brows. “No, I’m not, Harry,” Ginny said finally. “But I will be. That’s something that I know for certain.”

With that, Ginny rose from her chair and crossed to the fireplace. She’d tucked her trunk into the corner. Her entire life was contained in that trunk. Ginny took out her wand, and levitated the trunk to her side. Harry shot up from the sofa just as Ginny was about to reach for their little flowerpot full of Floo powder on the mantle. “You can’t possibly be leaving already,” Harry said, a faint note of panic in his voice. “You’re leaving me to tell the children? Your parents? All alone?”

“Yes, dear,” Ginny said. She reached into the flowerpot and felt the powder run through her fingers. “You’re a clever man. I’m sure you’ll think of something appropriate. Cheers, love.” Ginny stepped into the fireplace with her trunk in her hand, having tucked her wand into her bun. She’d never quite broken herself of that particular bad habit.

Could she truly do this? Could she truly leave her husband and her children and go off to live on her own?

No, Ginevra, stop this, Ginny told herself. You are fabulous. You are going to France. You are going to live your best life like one of those retired AQL Seekers after a Felix scandal.

She took a deep breath and cleared her throat. Ginny didn’t want to end up in Marseille on the seedy side of town. Again. “Chateau Baie-des-Anges,” she said clearly.

It was time for Ginevra Weasley-Potter to have some fun for a change.

Chapter Text

As it turns out, it’s very difficult for a mother of three to learn how to have fun on her own. Ginny was bored. There were only so many bonbons that a witch could eat on her own, and really, Nice was more of a lovers’ city. Everywhere that Ginny went, she saw happy little couples strolling down the Promenade des Anglais. Ghastly. She wanted to hex them, but then they were just Muggles going about their lives. It wasn’t their fault that Ginny had survived a war, married a war hero in the flush of a schoolgirl infatuation and been too busy with her sport career that she hadn’t noticed that they didn’t love each other. This was an experiment, after all, and it had failed. It was time to return home to England.

Ginny had been at the Chateau for just under a week, so packing up her suite didn’t take much time at all. Especially since her mother had insisted on teaching her some basic housekeeping spells… not that Harry had ever let her use them. Ginny shook her head bitterly as her clothes and cosmetics bag zoomed through the air to land in her trunk with a flourish. How did she think that she would be able to get away from her home life for longer than a week? She had been called home by her children three times in as many days. Not to mention that Ginny missed them terribly. Surely, she could live her best life in her own London flat? Something nice in Muggle London, perhaps?

Sighing heavily, Ginny made her way down to the lobby of the hotel, levitating her trunk in front of her. The halls were thickly carpeted in a deep, wine red. Gilt mirrors were hung between the suites. Something these posh hotels did for privacy, no doubt. No one wanted to have their indiscretions in a French seaside town broadcast to everyone by some long-dead braggart. Hermione and Ron had learned that the hard way when they’d taken their honeymoon in a lower-rated hotel. The newspapers had caught wind that the Boy Who Lived’s two best friends were staying there from an indiscreet porter looking to make a few Galleons, and they’d been mobbed. That’s what you get for honeymooning in Brighton, Mum had told them. Dad had just shaken his head, and Ginny had wisely kept her mouth shut.

The sun was shining through the stained-glass windows in the lobby when Ginny set her trunk down at her feet. Multi-coloured dappled light danced over the dark wood of the front desk. “Oh, Madame Weasley,” said the young concierge. “Are you leaving us so soon? You are booked for another month here. Has something happened?”

Ginny looked into the boy’s face. He couldn’t have been more than 20 with his tousled brown hair and wide brown eyes. Not a single mark or wrinkle on his face either, just a vaguely panicked look. The poor thing couldn’t think that she was leaving because she had a poor experience, could he? “Oh, no,” Ginny said, smiling. “I’ve just found that I ought to be home now. My children need me, and – oh, I’m sorry, Henri. I shouldn’t be boring you with this.” She rustled in her handbag for her change purse. “I’d like to settle up now, if you please.”

Henri smiled back, though the vague panic didn’t leave his face. He fumbled with the silver antique Muggle cash register in front of him. Years spent hiding from her mum in her dad’s Muggle artifact shed told Ginny that it had been enchanted. Henri pressed a few keys, and a strip of paper rolled out with a soft ding. Henri tore off the receipt and leaned across the counter to hand it to Ginny, wincing slightly as he did so.

Ginny took the paper and glanced at it, just barely. Her brow wrinkled. “You alright?” she asked, her maternal instincts flaring at once. It was never a good sign when a young wizard was wincing in pain. Wizards healed much faster than Muggles, and really, it was only spell damage that caused permanent injuries. Ginny had learned that much while she was playing Quidditch. Her coaches with the Harpies had been fastidious about their players’ health, which was probably what had allowed her to have such a long career.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Henri said, lifting one shoulder in what Ginny had come to recognize as a very French shrug. Her eyes narrowed as she realized that it wasn’t the injured shoulder. “Just an old Quidditch injury. It’s nothing to be worried about.”

“Bollocks,” Ginny said at once. “I played Quidditch for fifteen years and I don’t move like that. Tell me the truth, and maybe I can set you up with a special Healer. I know lots of brilliant ones.”

Henri flushed a charming shade of pink. “I used to play for Quiberon,” he said, running a hand through his hair. It only made it look better. If Harry had done that, he’d look like he’d been struck by lightning. Oh, damn, she wasn’t meant to be thinking of Harry right now. Refocus, Ginevra, Ginny thought. “And I dislocated my shoulder during one of our championship matches. I thought for sure that the coach would pull me out, because she had always been so good about letting us see a Healer, but she used a Permanent Sticking Charm on my shoulder and sent me back out.” Henri shrugged again, very clearly avoiding Ginny’s gaze. “But we won the match, so that’s all that matters, non?”

Ginny’s mouth fell open with a gasp.

“You know what, Henri, I don’t think I’m needed at home after all,” she said, plucking her room key off the counter and crumpling the paper receipt in her fist. Ginny’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the key chain. “What time does your shift end today? I’ll treat you to a cuppa.” Henri opened his mouth to protest. “No, no, I insist. You can think of it as an old retired Quidditch player doing their bit for the younger generation.”

Henri tried to protest again, but Ginny cut him off by sweeping from the room with her trunk floating behind her. “Call round to my room when your shift ends, Henri,” she called over her shoulder. “You can pick the place, as I still know pants about the good cafés around here.”

That was the benefit to being absolutely fabulous, Ginny decided. You could get people to do whatever you wanted with very little effort.

*

Ginny was enjoying a pastry that she’d picked up from the bakery round the corner in the sitting room of her suite, reading an absolutely tawdry French novel that she’d picked up in the library of the hotel – the kind that Harry would have been scandalized to see her reading before they went to bed, but that she’d caught him reading once or twice when they’d been kept inside their hotel rooms when they’d been mobbed by press at World Cup games – when there was a sharp rap on the door. She glanced at her watch and gave a hum of surprise when she noticed that it was after 3 pm. Ginny couldn’t remember ever being able to pass the afternoon reading novels and eating French pastries. Her life has always been full of Quidditch practice and minor magical mishaps. The joys of having three young children. Sighing, Ginny stood, dusting herself off and wiping flaky pastry crumbs from her face as she made her way over to the door. There was another tentative rap. For a boy who seemed so reluctant to take tea with her, Henri was certainly proving to be insistent.

“Oh, yes, yes, I heard you,” Ginny said as she swung open the door, expecting to see the young concierge standing in front of her. The smile fell from her face as she realized who was standing in front of her.

“Ginny, please, I need you to come home,” Harry said, his face haggard and covered in dark stubble. There were dark purple bruises under his eyes. “I am so sorry, and I miss you. The kids miss you. I promise that Draco and I are through. I’ll never see him again, if that’s what you want.”

Ginny felt her temper flare. She crossed the threshold of her suite, slamming the door shut behind her. “No,” she said, heat rising in her cheeks. Ginny had half a mind to pull her wand out of her sleeve and hex him, but she wouldn’t give Harry Potter that satisfaction. “I miss the children terribly as well, but it’s not like I never see them. I said that I was going to take some time for myself, and I intend to do just that.” Ginny strode along the hallway, feeling Harry’s eyes boring into her neck. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a prior engagement that I simply cannot miss.”

Each step that Ginny took helped her calm down. She didn’t know if Harry was still standing there in the hallway in front of her rooms like a dope, but she frankly didn’t care. As she reached the stairs, she pasted a bright smile on her face. “Henri, darling, are you ready to go?” she asked cheerily. Ginny half-hoped that Harry was trailing behind her like the sad Crup puppy that he was acting right now, just to see if it would make him jealous.

Not that she really cared if Harry was jealous, but old habits.

The concierge stood behind the desk, his head bent in conversation with a young witch. Her hair was pale blond and dusted her collarbones. Ginny wondered if she were part Veela, because her skin was so luminous that it was simply impossible that she was a human. Henri started at the sound of his name, raising a hand in greeting then turned back to his blonde companion, murmuring something in French. The woman didn’t look happy about what he said to her, but she nodded once. Henri’s face broke out into a relieved smile, showing slightly crooked white teeth.

“Yes, of course, Madame,” he said, stepping out from behind the counter. “There was a visitor asking after you, did you speak to him?”

“Please, call me Ginny,” Ginny said quickly, wincing a little. “And yes, we spoke, though briefly.” Not quite briefly enough, trying to guilt trip her into coming home and looking after him. Harry knew that she’d left because she needed a break, because she needed to be happy. Harry ending his affair with Draco Malfoy wouldn’t make her happy. Ginny had decided that she was no longer interested in the picture-perfect life that being Harry Potter’s wife required.

Henri must have seen something in Ginny’s face, because he turned to the blonde witch behind the counter. “Le mari de Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter, ne serai plus permis d’entrer içi.” She nodded once, then turned towards the stairs. “I must apologize, M – I mean, Ginny. We didn’t know your… situation, and he said he was your husband, so…” Henri’s voice trailed off.

Ginny patted his shoulder gently. “It’s fine,” she said briskly. “My husband is very persuasive when he wants to be.” She shook her head, as if to clear the unpleasantness from the air. “Now, take me to your favourite and ridiculously decadent café. My treat. Don’t make that face. I insist.”

*

Henri had in fact, continued to make that face. Ginny ignored it. She didn’t have the patience for boys just pantomiming their emotions. Not even glancing at the menu, Ginny asked for two cappuccinos and the most decadent pastries they had. The waitress had said nothing but left the table with a twinkle in her eye.

“So, Henri,” Ginny said, settling herself back into the plush booth. It was the golden hour, and beautiful light was streaking in through the windows. Ginny had just enough vanity to know that it was making her hair look the copper bright it had been as a child, when she’d been left to run wild with her older brothers through the fields of Ottery-St-Catchpole. She tucked a stray lock behind her ear, then fixed her gaze on the young man in front of her. He was still favouring his shoulder. “How did a star chaser come to be working in a hotel in Nice?”

The younger man flushed. “Really, Madame, it’s nothing,” he said, waving his hands and refusing to meet her eyes. Ginny’s own narrowed. “Just an injury. It’s fine. I came here because my copine – my, my girlfriend, Aurélie, she’s here and she wanted me close by. She’s working on becoming a Charms master,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “And I was never a star Chaser. Not like you.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “I had a friend at the Prophet look you up. You scored the most goals of any Chaser on Quiberon ever,” she said irritably. “Not to mention leading the European league for two years straight. If that’s not a star Chaser for you, I have no idea what is.” Ginny watched as Henri flushed deeper, but a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. “A dislocated shoulder shouldn’t have ended your career, and it’s a bloody tragedy that your coach was an idiot who doesn’t know his arse from a teakettle.” Ginny frowned, looking him over. “You’ve had it looked over since, I assume?”

“Yes,” Henri said mournfully, finally looking up from his lap. “I’ve been to see every Healer in France. They’ve all told me that the damage is irreversible.”

There was a pause in their conversation as the waitress set their cappuccinos down in front of them. “J’arrive avec vos desserts,” she said with a wink. Excellent. There was really no better place in the world for fresh pastries than France, and Ginny hadn’t eaten a carb in nearly ten years. It was time.

“Have you ever tried to see a Healer outside of France?” Ginny asked, taking a sip of her cappuccino.

“No,” Henri said. “Aurélie wanted me to look into it, but the cost, and the baby – and I just don’t want to keep postponing the inevitable.” He sighed, reaching forward to take the cup off the table. “I was told by at least ten separate Healers that I’m lucky to be able to move it at all. I don’t need anything more than that.” Henri shrugged, wincing in pain as he tried to lift his left shoulder.

“Oh congratulations,” Ginny said as she rummaged in her bag for a pen and a scrap of paper. “Are you excited to be a father?” Merlin’s tits, where was it? She should never have let Hermione put an extension charm on this. It was impossible to find anything. If they weren’t in a Muggle establishment right now, she would pull out her wand and summon it.

Henri hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said, and Ginny stopped her rummaging. It struck her in that moment how young he really was.

Ginny remembered the terror and the excitement that had followed when she had learned she was pregnant with James. She also remembered the way that Harry’s face had split into a grin, and how he had scooped her up and twirled her around. Ginny had never seen anyone so happy. He really was a good father, even though he and Malfoy of all people had been having an affair behind her back for years.

“Oh, that’s normal, love,” Ginny said, shaking herself back to the present. “If you’re not a little terrified, you’re not ready to be a parent.” Bloody hell, there was her notepad.

Henri made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. He stared out the window into the pretty cobbled street. His cappuccino was clutched in his hands, forgotten.

Ginny began scribbling on her notepad. “I know that you don’t know me at all, and for all you know, I’m just a washed up Quidditch player having a midlife crisis. And that might be true, but I can’t let someone with as much talent as you have your career ruined by a talentless hack with more magic than sense,” she said, tearing the page from the pad. “Gabrielle is my brother’s sister-in-law, and she owes me a favour. If she says that your shoulder can’t be fixed, then I’ll believe it. She has a lovely little clinic in Brighton, and she’s the best Quidditch Healer there is.” Henri continued to stare at her blankly. “This is her address, but I’ll send her an owl so she knows to expect you.” Ginny held the page out to Henri, who took it somewhat reluctantly.

Henri glanced at page and his eyes widened. “Gabrielle Delacour? But she’s – I would never even be able to get an – I don’t – I couldn’t possibly –” he began, but Ginny cut him off with a look.

“Nonsense, it’s not trouble at all,” she said crisply with a dismissive wave of her hand. “And if nothing else, you owe it to Aurélie and the baby to have two functioning shoulders. There’s a lot of lifting involved with nappy changing, believe me.”

“Vos desserts, madame,” said the waitress, bringing a tray heaping with fragrant pastries and two pale blue china plates. Oh, blessed Circe with a circlet, some of them were even warm.

“Oh, brilliant,” Ginny said, smiling at the waitress. She would definitely be back here.

Henri took one last look at the paper with Gabrielle’s address, then tucked it into his pocket. His eyes had a faraway look to them. Eventually, he smiled slightly and filled his plate with a freshly-baked croissant and a squashy éclair full of Chantilly cream. “Do you have anything else planned for your holiday, Ginny?” he asked, and Ginny knew that he would be going to see Gabrielle.

She smiled behind her cappuccino and took an éclair for herself. “Not really, but I’m open to suggestions.”