Chapter Text
She comes to in august 1981, disoriented, unnerved and off-course.
trashing, howling, scree–
Ginny dies . Ginevra breathes.
She breathes and lives, opens her eyes to a sea of ginger puffs, freckles and a lopsided, crooked mash of stone houses.
Ginevra Molly Weasly, they tell her.
Ginger puffs, freckles, lopsided house
Awareness blooms, then curls, recognition mutilates oh— how it burns, realisation sinks in bloody wounds, past the flesh down to the marrow of her bones and in acceptance the dust settles.
It all takes a minute an hour, a day, a month, a year
But soon enough, Ginevra is settled. anchored.
The comprehensive ... exhaustive implications of her circumstances don’t come to her all at once. Nor do they present themselves post haste, as soon as she’s out of Molly Weasly’s womb.
Rather, they trickle in, one at a time, slowly, leisurely, they awaken with whatever news comes knocking that day.
(it’s all rather horrific)
Late october brings a vanquished darklord, dead potters, the end of a reign of terror, of war, the end of an era (fourth year, tournament, graveyard, he rises once more—)
There’s no fantastic, thorough bullet-point plan to follow or righteous (and unbelievably lucky) winging it as she goes to be done. There’s no hastening out of the crib to save this or influence that or steal those or expose them.
There’s no harassing Arthur-ministry-employe-Weasley to bring her with him to work nor is there any fabricated, coincidental encounters with people of ‘interest’ or condescending, haughty Malfoys or arranged dates to be had between Director Bones and Percy’s rat.
There’s no ‘I am a seer’ revelations nor are there any floo calls to a headmaster in regards to the youngest weasley and sensitive knowledge that ought not be shared.
There is , however, learning to sit on her bum, crawling on all four then swaying on her feet.
There’s archaic finger gripping, piercing pain in her gums as she teeths, gurgled sounds out her mouth as she - gradually - reacquaint herself with nouns, verbs, determiners and quantifiers.
There’s coming to terms with her restricted mobility, her flailing muscle tonicity and riding developmental turning points as they come and go.
There’s a whole lot of— of something flowing in her veins, in her blood. Too warm, then too cool then just right.
It coils and curls and grows and it breathes as she does.
It lives . And it's hers.
It sings in earthy meadow and fresh, heady lemon tunes. She tastes summer rain and soft setting sun on the back of her tongue for the first time, it's everything she ever imagined and so much. more.
Ginevra’s jostled, turned, lifted, tugged, dragged and manoeuvred to no ends. She’s undressed, then dressed, bathed and cleaned.
There’s only so much a toddler can do and there’s plenty that’s beyond them, that —Ginevra knows. She’s cognizant and understands, no really! She does! and yet —
Isn’t there a spell for this? She wonders time and time again.
There certainly is but Molly Weasly, she comes to understand, favours a more hands on approach to magical child rearing.
Hands on her sides, pulling her arm, grabbing her cheeks, squeezing her nose, brushing her hair, washing her back, her armpits, then her torso and rounding on her stomach before going down, down, down—
Her eyes burn, the salt of her tears is lost to bathwater and the whimpers of her distress are swallowed by Molly coos.
There’s only so much a toddler can do, that Ginevra knows and yet —-
The bath bubbles, swirls this way then that way. Once, twice, thrice— twirls and twirls and twirls, there’s more water than the tub could ever hope to hold, rising in momentum it surges in the air, keen on devouring the bathroom whole.
Molly’s euphoric , her baby girl is finally, finally displaying some sort of magic, she reaches for her ginnykins purelightmagicohherlionessohher
The older ginger witch coos and caresses, she brings her youngest gryffindorherprideher oy to her bosom and squeezes in joy, praises babblers out of her lips and she stomps kisses after kisses oblivious to her daughter’s anguish.
The embrace is smothering, the brewing storm behind hisses and growls, an echo to the youngest torment. So deep is her exhilaration, the witch doesn’t notice the darkening water, nor does she think to reach for her wand when the mass rears back, then forward—
Ginerva barely registers Molly’s shriek ARTH— before frothing, raging water tides descend on her.