Tender the Storm

Chapter One: The Promise

Three years. She had given herself three years. Three years, Ginny, had told herself, measuring the days since the war had ended; she would give herself three years to rebuild the shattered pieces of her life to resemble something like happiness.

And she'd succeeded beyond her expectations. She was brilliant and successful; as a widely sought-after artist with her own small cottage in a secluded part of southern England, she had money in the bank, pretty clothes in the closet, and a job that she loved. She had everything that mattered. But why wasn't she happy? Why didn't these things fill up the empty part of her inside?

Because it was only a shell, she thought, tiredly, massaging her head with slow, soothing motions. It was three o' clock in the morning, and she was lying on her lounge, unable to sleep because of the headache that was creeping steadily up from her neck to her temple. Painkillers didn't work anymore, and nor did sleeping potions. She could do nothing but dig in her heel and bear it.

And to a certain extent, she welcomed the dull, blinding ache behind her temple; it gave her something to fight. There was a part of her that needed opposition, that needed to feel resistance, that took a fierce pleasure in her own suffering.

Ginny took a deep breath, hoping the ache would go away somewhat. But of course, it didn't. It merely intensified. Her head nearly split open with the pressure building inside.

Air. She needed air. Throwing a light wrapper of dark forest green over her lighter olive-colored silk gown, she slipped her feet into fuzzy white slippers and padded silently out of the cottage.

The night air was cool, and invigorating. The fragrance of a thousand flowers drifted toward her. The music of the small creek that pooled practically at her doorstep was soothing and rhythmic. Slowly, Ginny felt the tension in her skull ease.

A small sound made her look around into the darkness. Ginny frowned, her headache forgotten. It wasn't any of the noises she was accustomed to - crickets chirping, or owls hooting, or the whisper of the wind in the trees. It sounded like . . . a kitten.

Ginny pulled out her wand and searched for the source of the tiny mews. A dark heap was lying on the small bridge that arched over the pond, and Ginny moved slowly towards it. The heap moved, and by the light of the moon Ginny saw that it was a woman.

She lifted her head weakly. She was clasping a small bundle against her breast. "Help me," she whispered, in a voice hoarse with fatigue and pain.

Ginny tucked her wand away and knelt beside her. She was young, she saw, no older than herself. In her eyes there was a wild desperation that made Ginny's heart twist.

"Of course I will," she whispered.

She helped the much taller woman gently and carefully to her feet. Half dragging, half carrying her, she managed to haul her up the porch steps. Kicking the door open, she led her into the living room, where the other woman collapsed onto the couch, coughing harshly.

There was a small mewling cry from the bundle in her arms. Ginny's eyes rounded as she watched the woman push aside her cloak and reveal an infant tightly swaddled in blankets.

"He is awake." There was tenderness in the young woman's face as she looked down on the baby in her arms.

"So small!" Ginny found herself whispering as she leaned over to look at the child.

"He was born only this morning."

"Are you the mother?" she asked, putting pillows under the woman's head.

"Yes," she answered, smiling faintly. She winced in pain as she succumbed to another fit of coughing.

"You ought not have left your bed so soon after delivering a child," said Ginny, summoning a cup of tea. She did not care if this woman was a Muggle; now was not the time to be strait-laced over the use of magic.

"I . . . I am well enough to look after my son." She ran a finger through the child's soft hair. "I am calling him John . . . Jack."

There were other questions racing through Ginny's mind, more important than the child's name. Where was her husband, for example, and what was she doing alone at this time of night with her infant son? But the sadness that enveloped the woman, the love that shone in her eyes as she looked down at the baby, restrained Ginny from asking her anything beyond, "What is your name?"

"Madeleine," she said, before a fit of coughing once again racked her body. When it was over, she leaned her head back. "I am dying," she stated flatly, if weakly. She shook her head at Ginny's weak protestations, made more out of necessity than any belief that Madeleine was not dying.

"I am dying," she repeated, "and I . . . I need to know . . . that . . . that there will be someone . . . to care for my child after I'm gone." She lifted her eyes to Ginny's pale face. "You look kind . . . and gentle . . . will you look after him for me? Love him . . . protect him . . ."

Ginny blinked back sudden tears. Slowly, she nodded.

"Promise me," the dying woman rasped. "Promise me that you will be good to him . . . that you will be a mother to him . . . raise him as your own . . . love him always. Promise me . . ."

There could be no other answer. "I - I promise," whispered Ginny.

There was no reply but the child's soft cries.