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ivyblossomAnother cookie. A Quiescent, Chapter 1 cookie. Heeeeee.....
The last thing Ginny Weasley expected that night was a knock at the door. She was wearing an old pair of flannel pajamas, a bathrobe, and a pair of ratty slippers; she hadn't taken a shower in two days. Her mother and father were in Romania visiting her brother Charlie, Ron was having relationship issues with his girlfriend, George had called earlier that evening asking if she needed anything ("Nah, I'm okay. Thanks though, George. I'm good. No no it's okay. Don't worry. I'll see you next week."), and Percy had decided not to speak to her until she had a decent job. So that covered family. Who else would come pounding on her door at ten o'clock at night on a Sunday?
Harry?
It could be, after all. There was nothing saying it couldn't be Harry Potter. She brushed crumbs off the couch in a rush, closed the pizza box in front of her, and stood up. They were friends, after all. They had always been friends. When Ginny moved into this flat last year Harry had thrown her an impromptu housewarming, with her friends and family hiding behind the couch, behind chairs, in the shadows in the kitchen. "Surprise!" they shouted. She had been surprised, too. She had given Harry a key to the place in case she lost hers, or in case she fell in the tub and broke her back and needed him, or in case Harry’s dearest darling unshakably loyal lover happened to Avada Kedavra himself out of existence and Harry needed to crawl into bed with someone else.
This last bit she kept to herself, of course. On the surface she accepted that Harry was deliriously happy with Draco Malfoy, and that an end to that relationship was no where in sight. It was ridiculous, but she accepted it. She had seen the evidence. They were quietly affectionate, devoted, and oddly well-matched. Draco could be a perfect gentleman when he wanted to be, and Harry. Well, he is Harry, isn't he. They had bought a house near the university where Draco was working on a doctorate. They had a cat. Ginny had slept in their bed for a week once, cat-sitting for them while they went to America on vacation. Bub (short for Beelzebub) insisted on sleeping curled in a purring ball around her head and Ginny wondered who she was replacing, Draco or Harry. They had nothing unusual in their dresser drawers. Their medicine cabinet was organized alphabetically.
Ginny ran her fingers through her hair and stared at the back of the door. She hadn't really left her apartment at all since she quit her job two weeks before, barring three short trips across the street to pick up milk, bagels, grape jam, a package of tampons, and Ribena. She knew her parents were disappointed. Waitressing was the last thing they'd wanted her to do with herself, but the money was good. Not that she cared that much. You need some direction, Percy said. Over and over. Why don't you go back to teaching? She wasn't interested in explaining herself.
She was alright for the moment. She had been waitressing at a horrible Muggle restaurant with shiny tables and mirrors on the ceiling where she was required to wear a tight t-shirt and tape under her breasts to get more cleavage. Eight months of that place and the stench of the lemon cleaner they used on the tables was permanently burned into her brain. She had never been grabbed at so much in her life, but she made a lot of money. She made twice as much when she wore her hair down, after she stopped dyeing it black. Muggles liked redheads, and they liked the way her hips spread out from her waist. They liked the light pattern of freckles on her chest, seen in reverse on the ceiling.
She made Muggle money there, of course, but the exchange rate was shockingly good. All told, she made three times what she would make in sickles and galleons as a waitress on Diagon alley. She wouldn't starve at least, not yet. And so she stayed in her pajamas, she read romance novels, watched tv; she ate chocolates and pizza. There were four empty pizza boxes on the dining room table, and one still warm and half-full in front of her on the coffee table. She hadn't changed her sheets in at least a month.
Harry? Is that you?
For a moment, just as she touched the doorknob, she pictured the whole scene: she opened the door and there was Harry, alone, broken, crying. He needed her. Draco had broken up with him, Draco was dead, Draco had run off with some little tart from the university. Draco no longer existed. Harry was distraught, he was lonely and desperate. He came to Ginny’s door for comfort, because he knew that no one loved him the way Ginny did. She tucked her hair behind her ears and opened the door. Harry, darling, she was prepared to say. What on earth's wrong? Oh come here, let me hold you.
It was not Harry.
For a moment she thought someone had just got the wrong door. The boy standing in front of her wore thick black boots, a pair of slim, worn jeans, drenched from the rain, a grey shirt, frayed at the collar and an old army coat, unzipped. He had sharp blue eyes, an attractive, smooth face, and blond hair slicked back off his forehead. He smelled fainted of cologne and smoke. She was about to tell him that he had the wrong door when he smiled at her and said, "Hello, Ginny."
Ginny blinked. It wasn't a boy at all. It was Pansy Parkinson.
The last thing Ginny Weasley expected that night was a knock at the door. She was wearing an old pair of flannel pajamas, a bathrobe, and a pair of ratty slippers; she hadn't taken a shower in two days. Her mother and father were in Romania visiting her brother Charlie, Ron was having relationship issues with his girlfriend, George had called earlier that evening asking if she needed anything ("Nah, I'm okay. Thanks though, George. I'm good. No no it's okay. Don't worry. I'll see you next week."), and Percy had decided not to speak to her until she had a decent job. So that covered family. Who else would come pounding on her door at ten o'clock at night on a Sunday?
Harry?
It could be, after all. There was nothing saying it couldn't be Harry Potter. She brushed crumbs off the couch in a rush, closed the pizza box in front of her, and stood up. They were friends, after all. They had always been friends. When Ginny moved into this flat last year Harry had thrown her an impromptu housewarming, with her friends and family hiding behind the couch, behind chairs, in the shadows in the kitchen. "Surprise!" they shouted. She had been surprised, too. She had given Harry a key to the place in case she lost hers, or in case she fell in the tub and broke her back and needed him, or in case Harry’s dearest darling unshakably loyal lover happened to Avada Kedavra himself out of existence and Harry needed to crawl into bed with someone else.
This last bit she kept to herself, of course. On the surface she accepted that Harry was deliriously happy with Draco Malfoy, and that an end to that relationship was no where in sight. It was ridiculous, but she accepted it. She had seen the evidence. They were quietly affectionate, devoted, and oddly well-matched. Draco could be a perfect gentleman when he wanted to be, and Harry. Well, he is Harry, isn't he. They had bought a house near the university where Draco was working on a doctorate. They had a cat. Ginny had slept in their bed for a week once, cat-sitting for them while they went to America on vacation. Bub (short for Beelzebub) insisted on sleeping curled in a purring ball around her head and Ginny wondered who she was replacing, Draco or Harry. They had nothing unusual in their dresser drawers. Their medicine cabinet was organized alphabetically.
Ginny ran her fingers through her hair and stared at the back of the door. She hadn't really left her apartment at all since she quit her job two weeks before, barring three short trips across the street to pick up milk, bagels, grape jam, a package of tampons, and Ribena. She knew her parents were disappointed. Waitressing was the last thing they'd wanted her to do with herself, but the money was good. Not that she cared that much. You need some direction, Percy said. Over and over. Why don't you go back to teaching? She wasn't interested in explaining herself.
She was alright for the moment. She had been waitressing at a horrible Muggle restaurant with shiny tables and mirrors on the ceiling where she was required to wear a tight t-shirt and tape under her breasts to get more cleavage. Eight months of that place and the stench of the lemon cleaner they used on the tables was permanently burned into her brain. She had never been grabbed at so much in her life, but she made a lot of money. She made twice as much when she wore her hair down, after she stopped dyeing it black. Muggles liked redheads, and they liked the way her hips spread out from her waist. They liked the light pattern of freckles on her chest, seen in reverse on the ceiling.
She made Muggle money there, of course, but the exchange rate was shockingly good. All told, she made three times what she would make in sickles and galleons as a waitress on Diagon alley. She wouldn't starve at least, not yet. And so she stayed in her pajamas, she read romance novels, watched tv; she ate chocolates and pizza. There were four empty pizza boxes on the dining room table, and one still warm and half-full in front of her on the coffee table. She hadn't changed her sheets in at least a month.
Harry? Is that you?
For a moment, just as she touched the doorknob, she pictured the whole scene: she opened the door and there was Harry, alone, broken, crying. He needed her. Draco had broken up with him, Draco was dead, Draco had run off with some little tart from the university. Draco no longer existed. Harry was distraught, he was lonely and desperate. He came to Ginny’s door for comfort, because he knew that no one loved him the way Ginny did. She tucked her hair behind her ears and opened the door. Harry, darling, she was prepared to say. What on earth's wrong? Oh come here, let me hold you.
It was not Harry.
For a moment she thought someone had just got the wrong door. The boy standing in front of her wore thick black boots, a pair of slim, worn jeans, drenched from the rain, a grey shirt, frayed at the collar and an old army coat, unzipped. He had sharp blue eyes, an attractive, smooth face, and blond hair slicked back off his forehead. He smelled fainted of cologne and smoke. She was about to tell him that he had the wrong door when he smiled at her and said, "Hello, Ginny."
Ginny blinked. It wasn't a boy at all. It was Pansy Parkinson.
