Cheap Trick Lullaby

section two ::. mimblebeak's tea den

The sign read:

Mimblebeak's Tea Den

118 Diagon Alley

London Est. 1999.

Harry didn't even spare it a glance. He had become so familiar with the tiny, unassuming establishment that he felt he would know it were he blindfolded in the dark. For nearly four years now, indeed since its founding, he and Ginny had been frequenting the place. It was owned and managed by Neville Longbottom, an old schoolmate of them both, and one would be hard-pressed to think of a type of tea, magical or otherwise, the Mimblebeak's didn't serve. Harry and Ginny had yet to try every kind, though not for lack of trying. They made it a point to order something different on every visit.

When Harry entered, he immediately encountered a distracted Neville. The notoriously absent-minded wizard seemed to be attempting to simultaneously levitate two separate trays of tea and lunch items while being pecked in the head repeatedly by a large, grey owl. The group of wizards waiting for their order were complaining loudly about the service, and threatening to take their business elsewhere.

"Oh... Afternoon, Harry," Neville smiled, struggling to shoo the insistent bird away, and placate his impatient customers all at once. Harry quickly fetched his wand from the inside pocket of his robes, cast a levitating spell on the trays, and sent them gliding over to the group of wizards. Neville smiled at his former schoolmate, greatly relieved. "Thanks, Harry," he said. He finally turned to the creature -which had settled itself atop the counter- and untied the letter from around its leg. "It's my Gran's owl. She's been snipping at me off and on all morning."

"Everything alright?"

"Gran's just reminding me that I promised to pick up her new cauldron. Fifth reminder today, actually. I suspect she's getting worse than me about remembering things." Harry thought that was saying something, but he didn't point it out. Neville gestured over his shoulder. "Ginny's waiting at your usual table."

"Thanks," Harry replied, side-stepping Neville and the bird, heading for the tables in the back. The building was situated near the very end of Diagon Alley, and behind it was London proper. Neville had charmed the back wall to show the muggles on the busy street beyond (unbeknownst to them, of course). Arthur Weasley had been known to take a seat at the back and stare at the non-magical passers-by for hours on end, rapt with fascination the entire time, until Mrs. Weasley finally came to collect him. At the moment, Arthur's only daughter was the one gazing out at the displayed muggle street. However, Harry had a feeling that she wasn't interested as much as preoccupied. She barely seemed to notice when he slid into the seat directly opposite her own.

"Hello, Gin," Harry greeted, watching on amusedly as she gave a little jolt and nervously stammered a reply.

"Harry... It's you."

"No. It is I, Dobby, The Fornicating House Elf," he joked. When her only response to his jest was a small half-smile, Harry began to feel yesterday's worry seep slowly back into his consciousness. "So are you going to tell me what's wrong now, or shall I just wait you out?"

"I was thinking of ordering the rosemary and chamomile blend, what about you?" Ginny asked brightly, her manner affected and forced.

"Gin..." he started to say.

"Harry, please," she interrupted. "I need to do this on my own terms or not at all." Her eyes pleaded with him.

He sighed and flipped open the detailed, forty-page menu that sat before him. He only browsed a moment before deciding. "I'm feeling a bit adventurous today. I'm going to try the Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Tea. There's a different flavor for every sip."

Ginny smiled a silent thanks just as Neville appeared out of thin air as if he had been summoned by their collective decisiveness. "What's it to be today?"

They ordered their beverages and two sandwiches, plus a half a dozen raspberry scones. Neville scuttled off, and Harry watched as Ginny gradually began to exhibit every one of her nervous habits. The incessant tucking of her hair behind her left ear, wringing her hands with unnecessary force, and repeatedly tapping her right foot to the beat of some chaotic tune in her head. Despite himself, he found it rather pleasing that he knew each of these tendencies for what they were. It made him realize what a permanent fixture Ginny had become in his day-to-day life. He could not longer imagine an existence without her, and, in point of fact, he didn't wish to. The thought jarred his considerably.

"So, they've decided on The Name," Ginny said just as their food and drinks floated to a haphazard stop in mid-air beside their table. They gathered the refreshments and sent the tray back to the front counter with practiced ease.

"What's the verdict this time?" Harry asked. He found that he was immensely relieved to be on to one of their more familiar topics of discussion after the discomfort he had been feeling about their conversation so far. Ron and Hermione, traditionalists that they were, had been determined to christen their brand new London terrace house ever since the moment they had purchased it. It had all begun innocently enough, when Hermione had "stumbled" across the idea in a book on contemporary wizarding customs. Apparently, it was bad luck for a newly-married witch and wizard not to name their first home, and they weren't taking any chances.

As one might imagine, despite the fact that the newest Mr. and Mrs. Weasley agreed on the concept of a name, they didn't agree on much else. Accordingly, the house's would-be moniker had been changing about a dozen times a week for over two months. Most recently Ron, who had lately become obsessed with the muggle novel The Lord of the Rings, had dubbed the place "Shag End", much to Hermione's distaste. Hermione herself was thinking along the lines of a more formal name. "Vestadomus," Ron had announced to Harry the previous week as though he were prophesying the end of civilization as they knew it. "After some Roman goddess or another. I'll chase this idea out of her head soon enough." Harry didn't exactly have high hopes that the one Ginny was about to unveil to him would stick for long.

"I spoke with Hermione this morning. They've called a truce, and decided to name it for the street. Kenton."

"At long last, the war is over. I'm glad there were no casualties." He raised his cup in solemn salute, and took a sip. "Hmm... I'd say at least two lumps of sugar and a vaguely cinnamon aftertaste."

Ginny perused the menu for a time, then said, "That'll be the Cinnamon Sugar Surprise, I'd wager. It's listed under the magical blends portion for some reason."

"Not much of a surprise," Harry muttered, moments before a whizzing sensation suddenly assaulted his stomach, and subsequently traveled up his gullet. The commotion culminated in a tiny, sparkling projectile shooting from Harry's mouth and onto the table. Right before their eyes, the projectile morphed into a miniature replica of a powder-pink unicorn calf that made a good show of prancing about as though it were on parade.

"That was surprising," Ginny laughed, feeling obligated to point out.

"I'm almost afraid to take another sip now," he confessed with a good-natured laugh. The pair shared a chuckle at his expense while watching the fake, magical creature evaporate into a shimmering mist of sparkles.

After the commotion was through, their laughter gave way to a light, companionable conversation centering on many a frivolous topic as both finished their meals. Harry's only other notable tea flavor was a magical blend that had caused him to speak only in Spanish for a short period of time, which had proven both hilarious and confusing. Especially since it had yet to fully wear off. "Harry?"

"Ce, señorita?" he asked, and then grimaced at finding the after-effects of "Té Español" still present. He looked up at her only to see a look of seriousness clouding her eyes, and knew it was finally time to find out why they were there. "Are you ready now?"

"I'm ready as I'll ever be," the redhead replied. She drew a huge, steadying breath, and started. "Do you recall that night about six years ago when we were both still at Hogwarts-- It was your last year? I remember because everything had been so terrible in those last months. Anyway, we were both pretty down, and Dean and Seamus had snuck in all that firewhisky?"

Recall? How could he forget? He was still saving the one bottle of Ogden's they hadn't managed to consume. It didn't take much for the memories of that night to assault him as though it had only happened yesterday. As he was taking a sip of tea at the time, the result was a rather embarrassing, impromptu choking fit.

"Are you alright?" Ginny asked with much concern. She even reached over, and gave his back a few firm pats for good measure.

"Just a bit too spicy. Ginger, I think," he lied. "Go on, please."

"It's just that I think we almost... That is, we nearly... Well..." She hesitated. Embarrassment colored her cheeks darkly, and he was not much better off. She quite visibly tried to push the awkwardness away. When she finally spoke again, it was with a remarkably medical detachment. "This is ridiculous. We're both adults here. We were pissed off our arses, and we very nearly had... sex. I can't help but think that we would have gone through with it if Professor Flitwick hadn't found us."

He almost snickered at the thought of the comical bumbling of the diminutive man when he'd stumbled across them in the Room of Requirement on his midnight rounds. Flitwick had actually been sort of nice about it. He had docked points from Gryffindor for "being out after curfew", but otherwise swore absolute discretion without any prodding at all. Ginny had asserted that Flitwick's leniency was in the name of some twisted hero worship. Harry had always suspected that if they had not all been in the midst of a war -where happiness was in short supply- their luck would not have been so good.

"The thing is I haven't really been able to be... intimate with anyone since--"

"What about Mr. Pagano, that interpreter for the Ministry?" Harry interrupted. "I thought that was getting serious."

"Harry, Luca is of the sort that prefers wizards to witches, if you catch my meaning," she explained slowly as if to a young child.

"Yeah, I think I catch your meaning," Harry huffed. Who couldn't after rooming with Dean and Seamus all those years?, he wondered.

"You're actually just the type Luca prefers as his is not shy about telling me at every opportune moment," she informed him. When she saw the face he pulled, she added: "Yes, even after what you did at the Ministry Yule Ball. That was very rude by the way."

"Wow," was all he could say to that.

"Trust me, there hasn't been anyone that I was... serious with. I've traced these intimacy problems back to that night. I don't remember having trouble...going through with it back then," she went on. Harry suspected that the copious amounts of alcohol she had consumed that night might have had something to do with that. He thought he wouldn't be helping by saying as much so he kept quiet. "Now it's like I freeze up right in the middle of... things. I always have to stop completely or risk going into a panic. My therapist said that I've got some unresolved issues, and together we traced it back to that night--"

"Hold on. You've got a therapist?"

"Not really. I told Luca about my...problems, and he scheduled an appointment for me with his therapist, Madam Griswood. And you have to understand that at that point I would have tried anything."

"Wait, you told Pagano and this Griswood lady that we almost..." He gestured extravagantly, flailing hands and all.

The redness in her cheeks grew even more pronounced as if such a feat were possible. "I didn't tell them it was you. Besides, everyone already assumes we're together. If that's what you're worried about, it's happened already so you'll just have to get over it, and hope that the witches believe you when you say you're unattached."

"You know that's not what I meant. Wait, people really think that?" he asked, curious.

"Where do you live again?"

"Okay, you're probably right," Harry agreed.

Ginny shook her head in mild frustration, and said: "Never mind all that. If I don't finish saying this now, I never will." She paused and took a deep breath. "Harry, I want to get pass this. I want to... finish what we started that night."

He sent her the blankest of stares for all of ten seconds. At which point he finally caught her meaning, and promptly began to sputter again, this time without the aid of any drink item. "You mean you..." Here he pointed in her direction for clarification. "--and I..." Here it was himself he indicated with his index finger. "--should..." For a second time that day, he made a vague gesticulation meant to signify sexual intercourse, and the very idea of that sad fact made him wonder at what had become of his hard-won maturity.

"It'd just be one night. No strings. No repeats. No purchase necessary. I'm sure you know the drill," she waved an accusing finger in his direction. "I've heard all about your on-going string of one-nighters."

Harry engaged in a fair bit of indignant stammering at that. "I-- That's-- Who--" He started to say but stopped, because he didn't have to ask. "Fred and George. Listen, you of all people have got to know that half the stuff they say is a load of rubbish, and the rest is completely over-exaggerated--"

Ginny held up her hand to curb his frenzied rambling before it kicked into full swing. "Harry, they're my brothers. I lived with them for quite some time if you'll recall. I know how to distinguish the bollocks from the truth, thank you very much. Besides, if you're so sure they got it wrong, why don't you tell me about it yourself?"

"What's to tell? A girl catches my eye every now and then, but nothing really serious ever develops. Nothing so torrid is the wild nights of uninhibited sexual liaisons Fred and George have likely recounted."

"That's exactly what I inferred from Fred and George's 'load of rubbish.' But you see my point? You've been there before."

"Yes, but not with you! You're one of my best friends! It's not as if we'd say good-bye at the end of the night and never see each other again. I spend Christmas with your family, for Merlin's sake!" He began to nervously run his fingers through his already unruly hair, mussing it beyond even its natural disorder.

"We nearly made a go of it that night and we're still friends now," she pointed out, now lacking even the slightest bit of conviction.

"'Nearly' and the real thing are on completely opposite ends of the board!" he exclaimed. He was becoming so flustered now that the handful of people in their general vicinity were beginning to take notice.

Ginny looked as though she would very much like to find a hole and stick her head in it. She settled for burying her flushed face in her hands, and mumbling, "You're absolutely right, Harry. I should never have asked. Sorry." Quickly, she began gathering her things. He started to say something -anything- that would make that mortified expression on her face disappear. But, before he could get one word out, she was already placing some money on the table, and muttering her good-byes. "I have to go. If I'm not back soon, Madam Malkin will probably start pricking me with her needles again." Here she affected a grossly exaggerated yet startlingly accurate impression of her boss. "'Completely by accident, let me assure you!' The senile old hag. We're working on a huge shipment of uniforms for some wizarding school in Australia so this will be my last moment of freedom for the next three days, AKA the next billion years."

She stopped when she finally glanced up to see the strained look the dark-haired wizard was sending her way. "Don't worry, I'll write," she smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"Ginny--"

"I'm fine, Harry, really," she cut in with finality. "See you soon." She stood suddenly, and left with strides so fast she was almost running. He watched on as she barely paused to wave goodbye to Neville before exiting the front doors hurriedly. Neville looked about as bewildered as Harry felt. The round-faced man shot a questioning look in his direction, but Harry only shrugged. He feared that if he didn't take this particular incident to the grave, he'd be facing an early one. That was just his luck, because that had been quite possibly the strangest and most confusing conversation he had ever had. Advice on exactly where things had gone awry would have been great right about now. Perhaps he could track down this Madam Griswood. She seemed to know more about what was going on in his life than he did anyway. Then again, that was really nothing new, was it? "Dios mio..." Harry muttered to himself despairingly. He paid his half of the bill, bid Neville (who, incidentally, was once again being attacked by the very same irate, grey owl) a fond "adios", and hoped it wouldn't rain, because he needed a therapeutic bit of flying, and that was cliché enough without the weather getting in on it too, thank you.