Work Text:
Ginny’s worst fear is having to tell her children that Harry is not coming home.
It starts after the war, when Harry is sent off in increasingly dangerous missions and Andromeda is working night shifts. Ginny rocks and soothes little Teddy, whispering words of comfort in the toddler’s ear. As Remus and Dora’s child snuggles into her chest, Ginny contemplates the weight of parenthood. She wonders how she could ever explain to Teddy that he will not be able to see Harry anymore. She wonders if she would ever have the strength for such a task.
She is aware of the risks. This is Harry, for Merlin’s sake. Not just any Auror. She knows his name is and will forever remain an obvious target. She knew it when they kissed by the Great Lake and when he broke up with her. She knew it as they stole that furtive embrace after the funerals and much later, when he got down on one knee in front of her. Ginny knows the fear of losing him will persist like a shadow.
Being an Auror’s wife is not easy. The role involves a lot of patience, a lot of waiting, a lot of worry. Rushed goodbyes on Christmas mornings and midnights lost running down the corridors of St. Mungo’s. It also involves promising her children that Dad will be home very soon, safe and sound, even though she does not know if that is true.
There is nothing more reassuring than the feeling of the mattress dipping under Harry’s weight in the middle of the night. Usually the moon hangs in the inky blackness of the sky, the stillness of their house disturbed only by the hooting of their owl and their children’s sleepy mumbles. Ginny always wakes up, despite his noiseless footsteps up the stairs. She knows he checks on the children first before coming into their bedroom and stripping down to his underwear. He snuggles up under the duvet behind her and wraps an arm around her waist. She feels his scruff against her scalp and her body finally relaxes as he pulls her close to him. She breathes in his soothing instinct to protect, to defend. The feeling of relief never subsides.
He is back, he is alive, that is all that matters.
In the morning the children will have breakfast with their father.
She only ever asks him one question when he comes back at night, her voice dry with sleep.
“Are you hurt?”
If the answer is no, she sinks into the pillows and they know they can deal with everything else in the morning.
If the answer is a stutter or a silence, Ginny wordlessly rises and fetches her kit under the bathroom sink. By the time the war ends, there is not a single injury that can scare her. By the time they have children, she doesn't even flinch anymore. It’s just blood after all. She cleans him up, cleans the sheets and tucks the duvet tighter around them.
They have seen everything together.
They did not just graze Death with their fingertips. They both shook hands with Death, waved, and turned away, off chasing better dreams and brighter sunrises. It took time. But they figured it out, step by step, in the years that followed the war.
On a stormy night of June, after the Battle, she climbs in his bed for the first time and startles him horribly. His hand dives for his wand under the pillow and he pushes her to the ground with his other arm. Ginny’s head hits the floorboard and Harry’s eyes are wide as he realises what the war has done to him.
Lesson learned. Don’t startle Harry when he’s asleep.
He finally climbs in her own bed. By the end of that wretched summer, they get there. She hears the door creak and lifts the blankets to make room for him. He kisses the nape of her neck and lower between her shoulder blades where Alecto made her carve ‘ BLOODTRAITOR ’. His hands wander along her body and Ginny relishes in the fact that Harry seeks her comfort as much as she needs his.
Tom continues to invade their minds even after his body is burned on that second morning of May. Sometimes Ginny starts to shake in her sleep, sharp cramps seize up her muscles and she struggles for air. It takes them years to understand how to handle the tremors of the Cruciatus curse. Harry learns to lift her over his shoulder and to carry her to their bathroom, where he lets the cool stream of the shower startle her awake. He knows to increase the temperature slowly to allow the warmth of the water to release the tension in her limbs and clean the tears off her face. Harry holds her under the stream, their night clothes sticking to their skin. He kisses her forehead gently and brushes her hair back from her face.
Like Luna’s beaded dreamcatchers, Harry chases her nightmares away.
She learns to soothe his too.
She learns at the end of her fifth year, when he falls asleep with his head in her lap a couple of times next to the Lake, that Harry is a restless sleeper. He twitches and fidgets and talks. He sometimes mutters a string of syllables and frowns. After the war, she realises he relives the nights that changed his life.
From his lips, Ginny hears James Potter try to give his wife and child enough time to flee.
She hears Lily Potter beg Tom to trade her life for Harry’s.
She hears Tom murder Harry’s parents as the bed rocks from Harry’s shouts.
She knows to turn on all the lights, to pull him in a sitting position, to straddle his hips to keep him still and to hold his wrists tightly. She presses his face to her chest and a cold flannel against his forehead. She holds him close to her heart, whispering that it’s over, that they won, that he did it, that he’s safe, that he’s home.
Ginny gives him the affection and the tenderness that he ached for in Privet Drive. When his breathing evens out, he always, without fail, rises to check on the children. He methodically reviews the doors and the windows, and reinforces the protective perimeter around the house. She teases him about it sometimes, but she knows that he craves the feeling of reassurance; just like she always checks her ink and parchment before writing anything down.
In the morning, when the house is still quiet, they seek relief from each other’s bodies. His gasps and smiles against her freckled skin taste like hope and banish the nightmares. They sink into the thrumming pace of pleasure, listening to the steady rhythm of their heartbeats, their best source of comfort. Cheek to cheek, heavy-lidded murmurs.
Is all well? They’re alive, and that’s enough.
Even when his hair is streaked with white and her joints are sore from years of athleticism, they hold each other close and watch the snow gather on their windowsill. They let the whiteness fall and cover the deafening weight of the war. Their grandchildren’s giggles bounce against the walls of their home.