Learning to Laugh

Ginny Weasley was in love.

It was so ridiculous, so light, even odd. She was in love, with a tall Irish boy with a sweet grin and a booming laugh.

She never thought she would fall in love. After the diary she was afraid to talk to anyone, let alone boys. She drifted through Hogwarts, her crush on Harry evaporating like sand through her fingers. She went out with a few boys, like Neville, who was so nice and so hopeless, but then one day her mother had told her, in hushed tones, what had happened to his parents, and any thoughts Ginny had entertained about Neville had flown straight out of her head.

It frightened her, to be close with someone who had such darkness in his past. She didn't want to be reminded of the diary.

She took up sketching instead.

Ginny grew up, and her mother said she was lovely. Lovely and sad. "Darling, don't look so glum. Here, have some pie." She was small and slender, with rust hair that had a tendency to curl, like Percy's. She was, generally, an unremarkable person, who on the surface appeared to be very average, very normal, and very quiet.

And that was how Seamus found her, when she was twenty-three and he was twenty-four. She had just moved into a new flat (alone, of course, Ginny didn't have any close girlfriends she could have roomed with, except maybe Hermione, and she was off travelling with Harry) after quitting her job to live the life of a lonely, wandering artist. It was novel, thrilling. She quite liked the idea of going against her parents' wishes; but then again, each of one of her siblings with the exception of Percy had broken the family tradition of marrying young and producing multiple children, so she really wasn't that special in comparison. She had quit her job at the Daily Prophet following a long talk with Bill, who had enjoyed his own period of reckless wanderings in his twenties (including three tattoos their mother still didn't know about).

He had simply advised her to follow her heart.

"Maybe you'll be happy," he had said softly, brushing a knuckle over her cheek.

Happiness. It had eluded her since she was eleven years old.

She was in Flourish and Blotts buying ink one day when she had turned the corner and her nose connected with Seamus' chest. Ink from a bottle was upset and spilled over her fingers. She gaped up at him.

He blinked down at her. "Ginny. Hi! Sorry. Gosh."

"Oh!" she managed, still startled. "Seamus. Hi. Hello. Oh, umm..." She looked down at her inky fingers.

He saw them too and immediately sprang into action, producing a handkerchief and, against her protests, proceeded to clean her hands up. She bit her lip as his large, roughened hands held hers, as he narrowed his brow in concentration, attempting to get all the ink out of her fingernails. It had been a while since someone had touched her hands.

"Sorry about that," he said genially, chuckling a little, "should have been watching where I was going."

"No, it's my fault," she said. She quickly drew her hand back from his.

He blinked a little at her sudden gesture, but then just smiled, and tucked his inky handkerchief away. "So how are you, then?"

"I'm..." She tried to think of what to say as she looked up into his friendly green eyes. "I'm fine," she finished lamely. "And...you?"

"Oh, you know," he said. "Working."

She was curious despite herself. "What do you do?"

"Er, well...." He scratched the back of his neck shyly. "Playing Quidditch. Or trying to, anyway."

She remembered, vaguely, him as a Chaser. "That's right, you started playing in your sixth year. Congratulations."

"Thanks. So what do you do?"

"Well...art. Or trying to."

He smiled, she hesitantly smiled back. He asked her to come to the pub with her, and she, strangely, found herself agreeing.

*

He bought her a glass of white wine, sat with her, asked her questions. When she found herself unable to answer she asked some of her own (talking was the best form of defence). She discovered he had been a bartender in the Muggle world for a few years after leaving school, until a Quidditch coach had ordered a pint from him and history was made.

It was interesting, getting to know him. She had known him only as Ron's roommate, Ron's half-and-half friend, the cute blonde one, the funny loud one. Well, the funny loud one had matured somewhat, but still had the biggest smile she had ever seen, and the softest green eyes.

And his eyes were not unnerving as she had expected them to be. They did not remind her of Harry at all. They were flecked with brown, far from the frightening intensity and brilliance of Harry's, and with a happy twinkle.

It was, she realized, the warmth in his eyes that drew her to him first.

He spoke easily and freely of his work, his love for flying, his parents. He was still best friends with Dean and the pair shared a flat. And Seamus laughed frequently, punctuating his sentences with laughter. She was struck, pleasantly, by that laugh. "You, Ginny," her mother had once told her, "need to learn how to laugh." How freely, how openly, Seamus laughed!

After their drinks he asked if he could see her again. She froze immediately, and he saw it in her features.

"Hey now," he said warmly, "just as friends, Ginny. It's nice to catch up."

She looked at her feet. "I don't have many friends."

His finger tipped her chin up so her gaze met his. He was smiling. "Give it a try."

*

They were, indeed, friends for quite some time. His unending warmth towards made it very easy. They saw each other regularly, and he looked at her paintings, and she went to his Quidditch practices, and they often had lunch together. It was wonderful, having a friend; someone to eat with, talk with, compare freckles with (Seamus insisted Ginny had approximately forty thousand more freckles than him). Every day she found it was getting easier to laugh.

And then one day a few months later, over fish and chips and martinis at her flat (the martinis were Seamus' contribution), he said quite plainly, "I should like to kiss you, Gin."

The inflection of his voice made her blush and drop her fork. "Seamus..."

"I know, I know. You don't have boyfriends." He sighed heavily and slumped back in his seat.

"It's not you," she explained awkwardly, "it's me. I don't work well in relationships."

"You haven't even tried," he pointed out to her. "What's the harm in trying? Don't you like me?"

She wanted to shout God yes, I like you, but she restrained herself. "Seamus, please."

He tried to take her hand. She drew it back, an ancient reflex. He flinched as if he had been slapped.

"Fine," he said shortly.

"Seamus, it's not you, I..."

"You don't even like me to touch you," he accused, and she said nothing, because it was true. "You can't even be hugged."

She watched him Disapparate, silently. She looked at her hands, her own small body that he wanted to hug, and she couldn't bear it. She was not quite sure, but she thought she felt tears welling in her eyes. And something welling in her heart.

Desperately, she Disapparated, and caught him in his kitchen. He was sitting at the table, silent and fuming. He did not seem surprised to see her there.

Somehow, she crossed the room, sat across from him, and took both his hands in her own. Her grip, firm and sure, surprised them both.

She looked into his eyes. She heard her voice whisper.

"I need to tell you why I don't like to be touched."

*

Late that night, when she was exhausted with talking and tears--so much talking, more than she had done in years--he carried her to his own bed and tucked her in. He stroked her curls once, kissed her cheek, and then padded quietly out of the room.

"Seamus."

He turned.

"Don't go."

Her meaning was clear.

He hesitated. Then, slowly, he slipped in bed next to her. At first he just held her. Such gentleness in those arms, such hesitation. She found herself burrowing into his warmth.

"You're not afraid of me now, are you?" she whispered against his neck.

His laugh puffed over her shoulder. "No. I--" His voice caught in his throat. "Christ, Gin. What you went through, and no one knew. I'm sorry."

She clung to him and squeezed her eyes shut. "Seamus?"

He pulled back to look at her face. "Yes?"

"I would very much like to you to kiss me now."

He grinned, and he did. As she melted in him, as he whispered to her, as he loved her with his mouth and hands and body, she was happy.

*

"Christ alive, Ginny. Your brother is going to kill me."

She giggled lazily and trickled bathwater over her chest. "Brothers," she corrected.

"Oh, of course. Even more of them to kill me. Joy." But he pulled her close to him as she leaned against his chest, cradled in his embrace in the water.

"I won't let them kill you. My father will kill you."

"I look forward to it."

They floated in the water in happy, love-dumb contentment for awhile.

"Ginny bean," he said softly, stroking her thigh absently.

A nickname. Her heart melted. "Yes?"

His voice tickled her ear as he cupped her breasts. "I think I'm in love with you."

She laid her hand over his. "I'm sorry I've been difficult."

"Well worth the wait, darling."

She smiled, touched. And then she found courage. "I love you, too."

*

The next morning she woke, and discovered that she was still smiling, and still in love.

Ginny disliked clichés, but it truly felt as if her life was starting over again.

It began with him coming over to the Burrow for an innocent Sunday dinner. This was not unusual; he had visited before, as Ron's friend, as Ginny's friend. It went well at first, as Mrs. Weasley bustled about giving Seamus thirds, and the boys carried on a rowdy Quidditch conversation. Eventually, however, certain revelations were made, and Sunday dinner ended with Seamus going home with purple hair and Ron having to be taken away to a quiet room to calm down. Mrs. Weasley was heard asking, "She's doing what with that nice Irish boy?"

Seamus' own parents were a sigh of relief. June Finnegan was witty, efficient at magic, and she called Ginny "charming." Seamus' father Patrick was unapologetically Muggle, had a large record collection, still seemed to find his magical wife and children quite amusing, and eagerly questioned Ginny about magical music. Seamus' sister Darcy was seventeen and full of sass; the high point of Ginny's visit was Darcy asking her, "So is that your natural hair colour, or what?"

Each day, Ginny thought, I am in a relationship. Today we are two months old. Today, we are six. She even endured his patient if fruitless Quidditch lessons ("No, Ginny, you can't just give up and tell the Snitch to go buzz off. You have to catch it. Well, the game won't be over otherwise!").

They went on a minibreak to Paris, where they both discovered they much preferred Butterbeer and take-away Chinese to French food. He stood by her side feigning interest while she shopped for shoes, and let her sketch him (happy memories of lounging around in the backyard of the Burrow, Seamus laughing while she scolded him to keep still, tumbling her in the grass, trying to take away her pencil and kiss her instead).

Not that they didn't fight. They did. His unabashed, completely sincere friendliness towards everybody did not exclude attractive women. Once when he casually mentioned children her face went dead pale. And in his opinion she spent far too much money on handbags. But generally those spats ended in Seamus begging for forgiveness and Ginny reaping the benefits of his guilt, so she didn't complain too much.

Ginny cheered at his Quidditch games and endured rowdy parties thrown by Dean and made love to Seamus in a thousand different ways. Eventually he moved into her flat, where she failed at cooking spaghetti, they failed equally at housework, and on one very memorable occasion he let her paint his toenails. The part of his body she loved most was his shoulder, where she could rest her head, their bodies fitting perfectly together. For Christmas they bought a cat together, and declared themselves responsible adults.

She was deliriously happy, spinning along, boosted on new love like a dandelion seed on wind.

But then for her birthday he gave her a diary.

She dropped it like it burned. "Seamus."

His eyes were gentle on hers, and he firmly handed the diary back to her. "Ginny. Wait."

"I--I can't. I can't." Her eyes teared, her breathing quickened. "Is this a joke?"

"Ginny, you need to get over this. You need to forget about Tom and the diary."

Her gaze narrowed dangerously. "Don't say his name."

"I will say his name, Ginny. I know what Tom did to you was horrible. But, sweetheart, not all diaries are bad."

She bit her lip, visibly shaking. "I can't," she repeated.

"No, you can." He sat beside her on the sofa, made her take a quill in her hands and open the diary. "See? I charmed it. Write something."

As his hand covered her own, she slowly wrote, "My name is Ginny Weasley," the exact same way she had started writing in another diary, long ago.

When this diary wrote back, she very nearly cried out. But then, amazingly, it was not what she had expected.

I love you, Ginny Weasley, it wrote.

She gaped.

He smiled and took his hand away. She no longer had to be forced to write. She quickly thought of something, to see its response. "I have red hair."

And a very lovely red it is, like a sunset.

She found herself laughing in surprise and disbelief. The diary kept on writing.

You are a wonderful person.

You make the world a happier place.

My day isn't complete with you.

She stared at him, an enormous lump in her throat, moved beyond words.

"Yeah, I know," he grinned.

Ginny drew him to her. She was in love, and she wasn't afraid of diaries anymore.