Por Semper

Por Semper

Red against white. The perfect picture, and if I could I would keep it forever.

She is sleeping, she is still, and she is silent except for her gentle breathing. More importantly, she is exquisitely beautiful. Most importantly, she is mine.

I know it sounds possessive, but it isn't meant to be. It is just...true. From the thirty-seven, at an estimate, freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, to the creamy, dove-colored, pale skin that is softer than spring air, to the fiery red hair of hers that I can always pick out of a crowd, no matter how dense it may be. Miss Ginerva Weasley...Ginny Weasley...Ginny...Mrs. Ginerva Potter?

I twitch uncomfortably, burning cold and pulling the sheets up around me--and her--higher. Disconcerted, I breathe, then grope beneath the pillow supporting my head and produce what I am looking for--it's white gold. Small. Band-shaped. Ring-sized. And no, it's not mine. My eyes look up and meet with the sleeping girl next to me, and I swallow uncomfortably. Why the bloody hell does proposing have to be such a damned nuisance?
My skin bristles and I reach out to touch her cheek as a reassurance that she really is there, even though she is not awake. If I say she's mine now...does that mean I can make her mine--forever?

She sighs in her sleep, and I hope that she's having good dreams, because when I ask her it will either be a nightmare or just a continuation of whatever good dream she was having in the first place. I really do hope it's the latter, but then again, you can never be sure. Even though I have memorized her scent (lemons, sugar, fresh laundry), even though I have given her mine (some of her clothes smell like my flat--sandalwood, she always insists, but I just go with burnt wood), even though, one truly amazing night three years ago, I left her sore for a few days and she gave me a red-black stain on my comforter, sealing together a silent treaty of trust--even though, with all the knowledge that someday I could just leave her--and everything--forever, even though all that...could I still...should I still...ask her to be mine--for the rest of her life?

I stare. Yes... She stirs, and there is an explosion of the scent of lemons. I lean down, so that we, unknowingly, are a mesh of lemon-sugar-sandalwood-fresh laundry. Wouldn't it make sense to? I graze my lips with hers. She twitches at my touch, and to my utter relief and horror, opens her eyes.

"Nn. Harry?" she says, soft and broken, as it is early morning and her throat is adjusting. I am still staring--stop staring, you prat--and in my sweaty palms, still clutching that little remnant of forever. "Were you staring at me...?" she asks, still softly, but smiling, and if I dared look away from those succulent eyes of hers I would have noticed that the first rays of London sun were slipping through my window and framing the bed. But I didn't. I was busy trying to think of the best way I would ask; in short: "Ginny Weasley, marry me, dammit!"

Ah--I also had to think of a way to actually make it interrogative.

She looks quizzically at me, as I expect anyone would have at the moment. I make the great effort to look past her and out the window, where I am shocked to see London already piling up with commuters. I had to get to the Ministry pretty soon as well, but...

"Ginny--" Well, how shall I put it? I make her sit up, and she seems either amused or confused at my awkwardness. "Harry, what are you--?" she begins to say, but I silence her. It is now or never. Now or never, Potter. Now or Nev...

And then the phone rings, shrill and tight. I curse in frustration at exactly the same time. Clicking her tongue, Ginny turns around, and--exhibiting the skill that I have taught her, a skill most witches only dream of knowing--picks up the phone. "Hello?" she says to the bastard who ruined my plans. Unconsciously, I find myself staring again. "Ron? What? Harry's not to go to work today...why?" Her eyes lock onto mine. "Draco's doing a double shift? Now that's a change..."

Is he? I remind myself to ask the Minister to give him a pay raise.

"It's Hermione, I suppose, isn't it...?" She laughs: bells and the tinkling sound of rings clashing against each other. Rings--? Oh, Merlin! "Yes, Harry and I will be back at the Burrow tonight. Ron, I don't have time to owl Mum, you do it--you have thousands of owls at the Ministry anyway...! Oh, don't whine." She holds the phone away from her ear and looks at me, her nose wrinkling in sibling digust. I smile. "And tell Luna I said hello," she yells into the receiver. I can hear someone on the other line talking loudly. "Bye, Ron!" A delicate finger fumbles with slight practice for the END button, and she looks back at me, rubbing her eyes sleepily. "Lucky you, Harry! No work today, eh? I suppose I have to get moving, though...or else the tram doors will close on me and I'll be stuck between the platform and the train...ugh," she chuckles, running her fingers through her red tangle. "Fancy that, Harry, though--me stuck in the tram doors?" She is particularly amused, but I....

Stuck in the tram doors? Yes! That is it, that is it. I've never been too good at analogies--actually, I'm still not--but this one has got the word stuck in it, and that works fine for me. What would I give to have Ginny Weasley stuck with me forever? Everything! Everything and then some. But only--if only she says...

I take control of her shoulders and look at her seriously, reveling in what I am about to say. She stares back at me, wondering what the bloody hell I am doing. I don't blame her. But it is Now or Never. Now or Never....

Now.

She opens her mouth to say something but I speak first. "Ginny." I am surprised at how calm and smooth my voice turns out to be, since my innards are squirming with cruel agony. "Ginny, if you were to be stuck in the tram doors for the rest of your life--no, listen--only I was in that tram car with you--would it bother you? Would you stay? Would you like it?"

She looks at me as if I've just ingested five Puking Pastilles at once, with no effect. "You're mad, Harry--is this why Draco's doing your shift? Should we owl a Heal--"

"No, I'm fine--Ginny!" I try, in an inane attempt, to look morose and pleading while she crosses her arms, impatient. I attempt a second time. "Ginny...would you spend THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, even if you were stuck in tram doors--stuck between the platform, the doors, and me--would you stay there--if I was?"

She sighs, still unsure at how sane I am. "Y-e-e-s...? If you were there, of course...but I still don't get..."

Without words, I uncurl my fingers and present to her the white gold circle that fits perfectly on her left ring finger. (I slipped it on once when she was asleep, just to check.) Her eyes instantly widen, and I think she has finally gotten the subliminal message nestled in my insane tram door analogy. I wait two more seconds for her to say something, but she's either speechless or too angry to speak--and good Lord, I do hope with everything I've got that it's the first.

"Tram doors or not," I say, poising the ring above her open left palm, her open left palm that I am grasping in my own trembling hand, "Ginerva Weasley, would you--who smells of lemon and sugar and fresh laundry, whom I know will always be there for me, and not just because of this--" I lightly brush my scarred forehead against hers and feel her shiver. "--would you stay with me--stuck with me, Harry Potter--forever?"

There is a forever in her eyes. I see it, even before she bites her lip nervously and nods. That forever is what makes me slip that ring on her finger with practiced ease, is what makes me fall over from her sudden tackle, is what makes me kiss her--a kiss worth four and a half years of waiting; and it is what makes my senses clear enough to hear her say, "Yes, yes, of course, absolutely--forever! And then some!" I laugh through her lips.

She smells exactly like I know she would--lemons, sugar, fresh laundry, and sandalwood. She looks exactly the same way she does with my eyes closed--spring air soft skin, flaming vivacious red hair, sparkling round eyes. The only thing that is different about Miss Ginvera Weasly-almost-Potter is that she really is mine. She's all mine--and will be, forever.