Rating:
PG-13
House:
Astronomy Tower
Ships:
Ginny Weasley/Harry Potter
Characters:
Ginny Weasley
Genres:
Romance Adventure
Era:
The Harry Potter at Hogwarts Years
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Order of the Phoenix Half-Blood Prince
Stats:
Published: 02/13/2006
Updated: 02/13/2006
Words: 1,597
Chapters: 1
Hits: 1,603

Leaving Home

Weirdly

Story Summary:
A redhead leaves her family home and doesn't look back.

Chapter 01

Posted:
02/13/2006
Hits:
1,603


The small, soundless shock of her alarm clock wakes the girl up precisely at 4:00AM.

"Finally," she whispers. It is the barest of a whisper. She cannot afford for anyone to apprehend her now.

Carefully, and oh-so-slowly, she swings her nightgown-clad legs over the side of her shabby bed. There is the creaky board, she thinks to herself, her toes automatically avoiding it after living her whole life in the run-down house.

One step toward the door is enough for her to snag the bundle she has secreted under her bed, where her mother will not find it, with her foot. Stuffed under the rickety bed along with the bundle are several very fluffy pillows. The girl takes these out too and places under the covers in the shape of a body.

The lamest trick in the book, but the girl has another little something up the threadbare sleeve of her nightgown. A wand. She points it at the lump of pillows, and it immediately takes on her appearance. It rolls over in the bed and snores lightly.

Perfect. Enough to deflect suspicion, should her mother come prowling around as she often did.

The girl turns around, her brown eyes hard and determined, though the effect is negated slightly by the little-girl nightgown with blond princesses on it.

Now her brown eyes face the window, and it is certain that she is going to climb out. But no, now she turns back toward the pink-painted door of her room. She hesitates a second--just a second--and points her wand at herself.

"Silencio," she whispers--she does not quite trust non-verbal spells on such things as important as this--and walks calmly out of her room. She makes no attempt to tip-toe around, though she naturally avoids all the creaky places in the floor she knows well.

So down the stairs she walks, fights and flights of steps, past the abandoned rooms of her brothers--and then, she arrives at the landing of her parents' room. There she stops for a second and holds her breath, although the spell she cast makes sure that no one can hear it. Firmly she shakes her red-haired head and once more takes resolute steps downstairs.

Now the girl is in the living room, and now the kitchen. Again, she pauses. This kitchen, which has been the source of so much comfort, so much laughter--again, the girl shakes her head and moves on to the door, hidden partly by pots and pans hanging.

Slowly she turns the key in the back door's lock, and whispers her name and password. Security has been tightened, with the Dark Lord on the loose. Everyone has to go through many tests before they can enter or exit the boundaries of the house. The girl passes all of them; she is who she says she is, and she has automatic clearance.

She tenses her grip on her bundle as she steps to the outside stoop and her bare feet feel the homely, cold, hard stone.

Almost free.

The girl crosses the grass--cold and wet under her feet--and approaches the broom shed. She knows the reinforced plywood door well, the oiled slide unfamiliar--it always creaked, before she oiled it last night to ensure maximum stealth--when she opens it.

There is her good broom, the one she uses to play Quidditch on, the one she has won games with. She grabs it and casts one last spell on it and her. The last spell that she'll cast for a while as she is yet underage and only the house is protected against the Ministry's detectors.

She performs a complicated charm--one learned only by the highest year in her school, and sometimes not even then--on herself and the broom. Her brothers have affectionately called it the "Notice-me-not spell."

That done, the girl exits the rickety shed and carefully closes the door. One last pause.

Brown eyes steadily regard the house she grew up in; magical through and through, shabby, run-down, but most of all--home.

Not anymore.

The girl throws a leg over her broom. She still wears nothing more than the nightgown with the little princesses printed on it. It is a good thing that it is a warm summer night, but even now the wind is cool, nipping at her ankles. But the girl doesn't care, as she rises into the air and away from the house that she has called home for most of her life.

She is free. She is flying. She is in love.

The girl has been flying for an hour, when her mother wakes. Her mother is plump, but her face is haggard now. The war has taken the last vestige of beauty from her.

Now she wakes up. Something is wrong. The house is too quiet, she realizes. The mother rises out of bed, careful not to disturb her husband. She'll just check on her daughter.

Her daughter. Before, it would have been her children. But they are all grown now, off fighting. Thankfully none of them are dead. Yet, she adds, and scolds herself for it. She still has her daughter.

And there is no way that she is going to let that single child left go off and fight in that war; go off and get killed. Even if she has to imprison her daughter, the mother will not let her sole remaining child in her house go off to war.

The mother pulls on her knit dressing gown and walks across her room on silent feet so as not to disturb her husband or her daughter. She opens the door, and sees on the ground a well-read letter. It was obviously once a tightly furled scroll, but has been read so much that it lies quite flat.

Curious, the mother bends down--groaning a little at stiff joints--and picks up the letter to read it.

Dear Ginny,

Hermione 'talked' with me--you know those 'talks', I'm sure. The ones where if they take place in America you can hear them in Ottery St. Catchpole. Anyway. She shouted a lot at me. She should have been a redhead, the state of her temper...

Her yelling caused me to have a revelation, of some sort. And then Luna talked to me, and my conclusion is as follows.

I can't hide anything from Voldemort. I can't hide my love for you from him. So, the break-up that we had was for no point. Hermione, Ron and I have not had much success on the Horcrux front. We could use your help.

Thus, the combination of these two points makes me ask this:

Ginny, will you come with me and help me find the Horcruxes, help defeat Voldemort? And be my girlfriend? And if there's an afterwards, maybe something more?

I don't want to pressure you, Ginny. I know that I hurt you with that break-up at Professor Dumbledore's--funeral--and hurt you even more afterward, but you always stayed steadfast. Steadfast and strong always ready to support me.

I miss you, Ginny. I want you here with me--maybe it's selfish--but if you want to join Hermione, Ron and I on this mission to get rid of Voldemort, meet me at the place Hermione will tell you, at about 6:00AM on August 15 this year.

I love you,

Harry

P.S.: Ginny, please accept this. You're right in what I know you're thinking; not all of these words are Harry's specific ones, but he actually wrote part of it. And the intent is absolutely sincere, let me assure you of that. Aren't you proud of him? I never realized he could be this romantic without my help...

-H.G.

Mrs. Weasley looks hopelessly at the calendar.

It is August 15.

Her little girl is gone.

"Ginny?" she whispers. Then, slightly louder, "Ginny!"

She sinks to her knees--they creak--and sobs once, loudly, but devoid of tears.

"Arthur, our baby's gone," she whispers. Arthur comes out of their bedroom and reads the letter.

He joins his wife on the floor, sobbing.

Ginny flies for another hour. She is far away by now, and has almost arrived.

Twenty feet until she touches down. Three figures emerge from the shadows, as it is precisely 6:00AM.

Ten feet.

Five feet.

The figures are looking around.

"Harry," one whispers. "I don't think she's coming..."

"She's coming, Hermione," Harry says fiercely. "I feel her. She may have that Notice-Me-Not spell on her, or whatever she calls it--just start trying to negate that spell randomly around--"

"Fine," Hermione whispers. She starts casting the counterspell non-verbally, in random directions around her.

Ginny touches ground. She leaps in front of Hermione's wand, catching the spell that undoes her disguise.

"Ginny!" Harry whispers. It's frightening, how intense that soft of a voice is. All of Harry is soft and frighteningly intense, and Ginny has nearly forgotten how much she loves it. Ginny runs toward him and their wands clatter forgotten to the ground.

"Oh, Harry," Ginny whispers back, and she's hugging him tightly. Or is that him, hugging her tightly? It is not apparent.

Hermione and Ron glance at them before taking up wands to protect the now-kissing couple. The couple finally united.

Five minutes, and Harry and Ginny break apart.

In a mere moment, Harry casts a spell on Ginny's wand that allows her to use magic without Ministry detection, although she is underage. Ginny takes her wand back with a kiss of thank-you, and Transfigures her nightgown into real clothes.

Then all four of them--young, and in love--the hope of the world--wordlessly mount their brooms, to try and defeat Voldemort.

Together.

Always together.