Learning How To Dance

Learning How To Dance

By Ginnysdarkside

I've been taking dancing lessons. At first, my feet shuffled awkwardly in time to the music, and I got some strange glances from some of the other students, but over time I steadily improved. The class right before mine is full of children Hogwarts age or younger. Surly kids dragged by their mothers to stomp around and try to achieve some form of the social graces. Their hair is brushed neatly, and their shoes polished to a shine, the boys looking surly and the girls trying not to seem excited.

Gran never thought that kind of thing was important. She was too busy worrying about all the trouble I might get into. Who can think about something frivolous like dancing lessons when you're concerned your grandson is certain to perish one day in a nasty potions accident?

I would never have fit into such a group anyway. I see the kids in this class, the little Draco Malfoys and Pansy Parkinsons of their generation. I would have floundered in a dancing class, fallen over my own chubby feet while the other children teased me mercilessly, and I would have gone home in tears.

Today though, I am a man, and those days are far behind me. I played an important role in helping defeat Voldemort and then retired to a quiet life studying Herbology. At first I thought I'd work with medical herbs and plants, but when my parents finally passed on, modern medicine unable to slow their gradual decline, my heart wasn't in it anymore.

I was devastated and angry, desperate for some unattainable might have been. I'd inherited my mother's childhood home, a small cottage in the Lake District with peeling paint and loose shutters. The interior was dim and dusty, forgotten by time, and the massive gardens were neglected and overrun by weeds. I moved into the house, inhabiting a single room, and spent that whole summer in the garden, shaping hedges, pulling weeds, and cultivating the ragged, overgrown rosebushes, bringing the fragrant blooms into budding life with my hands. I forgot to eat and stayed out late into the night, digging and planting those flowers which do best when planted by moonlight. When I finally went to bed in the dusty master bedroom, it was to fall into the exhausted sleep of a dead man, a hazy twilight world where no dreams could haunt me.

The last day of summer I stood in the fading daylight and looked around my finished garden. The autumn flowers were brilliant in the fiery glow of the setting sun, the vivid colors reflected in the shallow pond I'd fashioned with my own hands. I had taken decay and made it beautiful.

That was the day she came to see me. I had avoided her all summer, answering her owls with succinct ones of my own, telling her I was fine and that I just needed time alone to think. She stood outside the garden gate watching me. Her brown eyes were pools of concern and worry, and her flaming hair rivaled the riotous red of the chrysanthemums.

I approached her slowly, brushing the coarse soil from my hands off on my threadbare trousers.

"Ginny." I stared at her, speechless, unsure what to say now that she was here. Words clogged my throat. In my lonely bed, I had pictured lying on a hillside, holding hands and talking with her. I had wanted to tell her of my parents, of my mother, of the newly pruned orchard in the back that would someday bear sweet apples, but the only thought I could manage right now was that she had come.

She must have seen something in my eyes, because the soft white skin of her neck flushed pink, and her hands clenched the top of the gate with sudden fierceness. She averted her gaze momentarily to the garden, cleared her throat and said, "This is beautiful, Neville."

I reached the gate and opened it. My fingers closed over her wrist and pulled her into my garden. Her pulse quickened under my touch, and I was aware for the first time that there would always be beauty in the world. I gently brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead and ran my fingertips along her jaw.

"Not as beautiful as you." Her eyes widened and met mine, shocked and pleased. I tilted her face up to mine and kissed her. Her lips were soft, and it was like falling, only I never wanted it to stop.

So we were together. It happened just like that. Falling in love, it seemed, was like a garden. The seeds could lay under the soil throughout the bitter cold of winter, but with springtime, the warm light of the sun would bring forth the first timid green leaves from the loamy earth, hidden underneath the last snow, and one day, when you least expected it, a full fledged blossom would emerge and burst into glorious bloom.

We married and moved into the house together. I turned my love for my garden into my life's work. My vision for bringing beauty into ordinary lives and places transformed me. Both here at home and on foreign soil, I plied my skills for all and sundry, designing and landscaping parks, squares, and private gardens. We were never wealthy, but we had enough. Enough to raise our children, enough to live in our untouched little corner of the world, where we could have tea outdoors and go for long lazy walks along the lakes on Sundays, where in the winter the fireplace in our bedroom kept us warm as we made love under an old quilt. The children, Frank, a strong, shy, red headed man with a wicked sense of humor handed down from his uncles, and Alice, who has her Mother's beautiful smile and fiery disposition coupled with my dark hair and eyes, are grown now. They went through Hogwarts, Gryffindors both, and now are starting on their own as we once did.

Gran lived with us in the house until the day she died. Ginny loved her, despite her crotchety ways, and the two of them spent hours plotting how to unseat Percy, the current minister of magic. Gran called him a pompous fool and, without fail, would keep him on his toes during his visits to us, until he excused himself early, claiming business, and leaving the two women laughing mercilessly over the dishes while I smiled behind my newspaper. I think Ginny and the children softened Gran in her elder years. I would find her playing games with Frank and Alice, telling them stories of her own childhood during Grindelwald's day as if somehow she had set her burdens down.

Ginny's family survived the war mostly unscathed, and though they never fully recovered from the loss of Bill, they are all happy in their own ways. Charlie is still the bachelor uncle, working with his dragons, deep laugh lines etched on his face from decades working in the sun. Percy has his public life, but sacrificed his marriage for work, his one true love. Fred and George are terrible as ever. They each married and, to their horror, had a succession of seven children each, all daughters, all responsible and hard working. They have adored Frank since birth, and it's likely he will be the one to run the Wheezes some day. Arthur and Molly still live at The Burrow. Molly dotes on their score of grandchildren, and Arthur's passion for Muggle artifacts is still a rampant and occasionally exploding force within the household. Ron and Hermione married, and I would say that they were happy for a while. They had three children, but realized they were better friends than spouses. Harry disappeared for a time, and when he returned he was a changed man. He coaches Quidditch now, and hasn't thrown a curse since the day he killed Voldemort. He and Luna live in Ottery St. Catchpole, with their son James, where they can be near both her father and the Weasleys.

My final dancing lesson was yesterday. Today will be my first public performance. I stood out in the garden with Alice this morning and watched the sun rise, our cups of tea warm in our hands. Ginny brought out scones, and we munched them dreamily as the garden came to life around us.

I prepared with care for this evening, for there will be other people there watching. All the eyes of our family and extended family will be on us for that short period of time. I put on my best robes, shined my shoes until I could see my face in them, and brushed my thinning hair until it lay flat against my head.

At the appointed time, my rough hands, hardened from spade and trowel, took hers, so tiny and white. The love we share overflowed and spilled around us like a fountain, precious, priceless. We moved slowly in time with the music. All my choices had led up to this moment. I'd spent my entire life learning how to dance.

When the music ended, I fought to keep tears from welling in my eyes. She put her arms around me and placed a gentle kiss on my cheek, a final gift of parting. She smiled, that dear familiar smile, and wiped away the one tear that managed to escape.

"I love you, Daddy." Alice squeezed my hand, smoothed her long white dress, and went over to where James was waiting, eager to dance with his new wife.

The music started again, a familiar song that had played at a Yule Ball long ago, when a young boy had trod oblivious on a pretty girl's feet, only knowing that he wanted to dance with her forever. Ginny crossed to me, her eyes gleaming mischievously, her hand outstretched in invitation, and settled into my arms. Her body was soft against mine, her hair still vibrant, with only the occasional silver thread gleaming here and there.

Our steps were smooth and graceful. She smiled up at me. "Somebody's been taking lessons."

"Yes, I have."