Matryoshka Vignettes
Wings of a Prayer
By Jeconais
Author Notes:
Ginny Weasley - Sat, August 15th 1998, 4:31am
Ginny held her hands out to the side as they swooped down and around the field outside the Burrow. She had no fear. His arms were holding her against him as he forced the broom into impossible manoeuvres.
He inverted them both, and she could feel her t-shirt float up her body, and his hand move across her stomach, holding her in place. But now he was touching bare skin. His hand felt like it was branding her, claiming her.
She laughed happily as they swooped up vertically, pressing her tighter against him. She could feel that he was enjoying it as much as she was — the impressive bulge she could feel was definitely not part of the cushioning charm.
He levelled out, and she inched forward before swinging her legs up and acrobatically spinning so that she was facing him.
It was a perfect night. It was warm and cloudless, and he had cast a charm over the entire field, so that they could have fun without worrying about her family or any wandering Muggles.
She had a much better idea of fun than he did.
He was watching her curiously, his green eyes smiling warmly at her.
She smirked back at him as she grabbed the bottom of her t-shirt and pulled it off smoothly, shaking her head a little to get her hair out.
He gulped, and his eyes seemed to catch fire. Before she could lose her courage, she reached behind herself and undid her bra, letting it follow her t-shirt to the ground far below.
She could hear him exhale slowly as he looked at her. And then he moved; he pulled off his own t-shirt, leaving him as topless as she was, and it was her turn to gasp.
She never expected him to be so beautiful as he sat there, his fair skin gleaming in the bright moonlight.
She opened her arms again, in an invitation for him to come and claim her, to take her, to make her his.
He moved along the broom, bringing it down as he did, so that by the time he was against her, their feet were on the ground.
She arched her head back, rubbing her chest against his, glorying in the new sensations — of being wicked, scarlet, and loving every single second of it.
She kissed him, deeply, feeling his arms hold her so tight, as if she was the only thing that mattered in the world to him.
"I love you, Harry," she whispered.
"I love you too," he whispered back and then paused for a second. "Daphne."
Ginny woke, the scream dying in her mouth before she could let it loose. She stumbled out of bed, grabbed a dressing gown, and walked down the stairs, getting a drink of water from the tap in the kitchen before she went outside and sat on the grass.
It was the third time this week she had been through the same dream; the third time her subconscious had punished her.
It wasn’t as if she needed her subconscious to beat her up — she was doing a pretty good job of it with her conscious mind.
Everything had changed that one morning.
When Harry had broken up with her, she had been expecting it, for exactly the reasons he gave, and she was ready to give him some time and space, before pointing out how silly he was.
When Harry came to Grimmauld Place for the summer — that was when she had decided that she was going to correct his silly assumptions. But then she had talked to Hermione, and decided on a different course of action. She’d tease him a little — make him want her so that he came to her.
She’d made the decision to act as teenager, not an adult.
And it hadn’t worked.
She’d worn revealing clothing in front of him, but he was distracted by Dumbledore’s return from the dead, by trying to convince them to go with him.
Dumbledore had explained to her why he had faked his death, and showed her the Horcruxes that he had already collected, and how he had destroyed them. And he asked for her help. The great Albus Dumbledore had asked for her — little Ginny Weasley’s — help. He’d said that he knew that she and Harry were close, and thought it was wonderful, and then asked her to make sure Harry didn’t go off on his own.
Dumbledore had pointed out how badly it had gone when they had lost Sirius, and she could remember how devastated Harry had been. It made sense to agree; Dumbledore had it under control, and she’d soon be able to get back with Harry.
But she never did get back with him. She’d tried making him jealous — Hermione had told him about how jealous he’d been of Dean — only it didn’t work. He pulled away from her, from everyone.
Harry asked her to ignore Dumbledore and trust him. She’d laughed as if it was a joke and told him not to be silly.
She hadn’t even thought that her refusal meant that she didn’t trust him.
She did. Only, she trusted Dumbledore more, and wanted Harry safe. She knew he could handle himself in a fight, more so this year, as it seemed to come naturally to him.
She’d abandoned trying to make him jealous, and tried to talk to him. But he was never around to talk to. She wanted to explain, but could never find him.
It was as if Hogwarts was helping him hide.
And then he’d come to her, one more time, and begged her to go with him, to help him fight Voldemort. And she’d been a good girl, and told him to wait, that Dumbledore had things under control.
He had smiled at her. The last smile she had seen from him. And it was a sad smile. A smile that had something in it she didn’t understand.
He kissed her forehead and retreated, leaving her stunned, her apology and explanations locked in her throat. And by the time she had recovered, he was gone.
And then her world had crashed down. Hermione had flown into her room, telling that Harry had been found, that he was dead.
Dead.
Harry Potter. Dead.
It didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem possible.
She understood then. She understood the smile. It had said goodbye.
Her mind wandered to his farewell gift to her: the Marauders’ Map.
She understood the gift, how much it meant to him, and how much it meant to her, but also that it was a symbol of the past.
Like she was.
It had been unspoken for years, but she had always thought that at the end, it would be the four of them, with Dumbledore, fighting Voldemort. And it would be a big battle, and they would win, and then Harry would marry her and they would live happily ever after, with children with deep red hair and sparkling green eyes.
But real life hadn’t been like that. Real life had Harry fighting alongside his girlfriend. A new girlfriend no one even knew he had. A girlfriend who took the time to get to know Harry, and when she had, a girlfriend who did exactly what she wanted.
She envied Daphne’s courage, more than anything else. Daphne had slept with Harry because she wanted to, unconcerned about what anyone else thought.
If only she had displayed the same courage, things would have been different.
She had thought about sleeping with him. Hell, she’d fantasised repeatedly about sleeping with him, but when she had the chance, when they had been kissing, she’d held back. He’d never pushed her, so it had been easy.
But now, she didn’t know why she had. Now her subconscious was punishing her for ignoring her dreams. For thinking of others and not herself.
She sighed and stared at the stars, wondering which one was him.
The problem was that he had grown up, and she hadn’t. He’d asked as an adult for help, and she’d responded as the teenager she was, ignoring her own intuition and following others.
She shook her head, letting the tears run down her cheek and into the sweet smelling grass.
She had been given her chance for heaven, and had blown it big time, and no amount of blaming others could hide the fact that in the end, it had been her own decisions that had caused it.
And now she faced a year at Hogwarts alone, with everyone knowing what had happened. A year where she would have to explain to anyone who asked that she wouldn’t date anyone — because it wouldn’t be fair to them, not while she was still in love with Harry.
A year as the only Weasley. Without Hermione, without Ron, and forever without Harry.
A year without excitement, as Voldemort was dead, Snape was missing, and Draco was gone forever.
Hell, it was even a year without Daphne.
She hadn’t had much to do with the Slytherin Ice Queen. Daphne had always been a little intimidating, with her almost flawless beauty and serene self-confidence.
She’d felt awkward and ungainly every time they had exchanged a few words. But Harry hadn’t. Harry had seen her as a challenge, and had gone about it in the same direct way he did everything else, and Harry had fallen in love with her.
And Daphne was as alone as she was.
"Where are you?" she whispered to herself. "Are you hurting as much as I am? More?"
She sat up suddenly, dashed back into the house, and upstairs.
She wrote out a note, and passed it to Pigwidgeon "Find Hedwig, and then give this to her owner," she ordered.
She smiled as the owl carried her hope into the night sky, and went back to bed.
Maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn’t, but at least she had tried.
For Harry, she had tried.
Daphne,
I’m sorry, well, for a lot of things. For taking this long to write to you. I was so locked up in myself that I didn’t even think about how much worse it must be for you.
I know I’m probably not the person you would probably think of, but if you need to talk, I’m here.
We do have one thing in common — we both loved Harry.
Ginny Weasley