Jitters
So, it’s almost a week late, but I was told that Weasley Week is more about vibes than punctuality. Here’s the final contribution, and this one’s all about Ginny. Thank you @thethreebroomsticksfic for organising such a fun event!
Warnings: mentions of past trauma.
September 2003
Ginny Weasley prided herself on being fiercely independent. Being the only girl in a family of boys, she had learnt to take care of herself and others in a way that her brothers had never been encouraged to. And being the youngest, she had watched each of her older siblings leave home, go to school, and embark on careers, leaving her behind, a little more alone every time.
There was, of course, one time she had allowed herself to become truly vulnerable, to rely on someone else. It had backfired terribly. Ginny had been eleven years old when she had first opened Tom Riddle’s diary. She had been eleven years old when she had stopped trusting anyone, even herself.
That trust had come back, bit by bit. She had made friends, eventually. She had gone on dates, had been heartbroken, had battled, had grieved. She had carved out a career for herself, made a name for herself, had finally gotten to know herself and trust herself again.
So why, on what should have been the happiest day of her life, was she doubting herself?
She loved Harry. She had always loved Harry, even when her definition of love had been a schoolgirl’s infatuation. He made her happy, understood her in a way few others did, and loved her in spite of that. When he had asked her to marry him, her answer had come as swift and as sure as she was on a broomstick.
Right now, she was less sure. Which was unfortunate, because right now, there were only minutes to go before she was supposed to walk down the aisle and marry the wizard.
In moments like this, Ginny preferred to be alone. Declining her bridesmaids’ offers to help her with her dress, she backed out of the vestry and headed for the bathroom, where she stood facing a mirror and holding on to the edges of a sink. Her head was spinning, her heart racing, and her stomach churning. She felt unbearably hot, though the room was cold. She took several breaths, annoyed by how shallow each one was, and found that this was useless. In a final desperate attempt to cool herself down, she turned on the tap and let the water run over her hands before splashing it onto her face.
That was a mistake. Now she had yet another thing to worry about. Her make-up, which she had painstakingly spent the morning doing — she hadn’t permitted anyone else to do it for her — was now entirely ruined. And, even worse, she had left all of her belongings back at the Burrow, not thinking that she would need them over the course of the ceremony. All she could do was try to clean up the mess she had made of her own face.
As she used her wand to remove the smudges from her cheeks, a toilet flushed behind her and a beautiful woman and small girl, both with the same shade of silvery-blonde hair, emerged from a cubicle. Ginny forced a smile as the woman helped the little girl to wash her hands in another of the sinks. Her niece looked particularly cute in her bridesmaid dress, but there was no one she wanted to speak to less at this moment in time than her sister-in-law.
Fleur Delacour-Weasley eyed Ginny over the top of her daughter's blonde head for a few moments before telling her, “I ‘ave makeup in my bag, if you would like some.”
Ginny couldn’t see that she had much choice but to take Fleur up on her offer, so she nodded. Her sister-in-law passed her a dainty clutch bag, which on opening, Ginny found to be far bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside.
“Va chercher ton grand-père, Victoire.” Fleur placed one hand on the back of her daughter’s head and stroked her hair gently as she spoke, and Ginny’s niece skipped out of the bathroom with her clean hands. Ginny expected Fleur to follow Victoire, but instead she turned back towards her and asked, “Would you like some ‘elp with zat?”
“I can do it myself, thanks,” Ginny replied, but her hands were shaking so badly that she was struggling to do anything by herself.
Fleur stood stock still, watching her as she tried and failed to wield mascara with any form of precision. Ginny was growing increasingly impatient and frustrated with herself, with Fleur, with everything. Eventually, she held out Fleur’s bag at arm length and snapped:
“Fine, you do it then, if you think you can do better than me!” Her sister-in-law blinked at her slowly, her lips pursed, and Ginny sighed. “I mean, yes, I’d like some help. Please can you help me?”
Her tone hadn’t been friendly in the slightest. Fleur shrugged and took back her bag.
“Close your eyes,” she told Ginny, who did as she instructed. A soft brush swept over Ginny’s cheeks, and Fleur’s voice spoke to her. “Victoire ‘as freckles like you now. ‘Ave you noticed?”
“No.”
“Zey look quite cute, I zink. A proper Weasley, no? It is a shame zat I’m covering yours up.”
“Yeah, well.” Ginny swallowed. “I’m not going to be a Weasley for much longer. Might as well get rid of the freckles while I’m at it.”
She sounded far more bitter than she intended. She could not see Fleur’s face, but by the way her sister-in-law continued to work on her face, she supposed that she might not have noticed.
“And ‘ow are you feeling about today?”
“Great, obviously. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because it is a big change,” Fleur said. “And because you are in ‘ere splashing water on your face when you should be about to walk down the aisle.” Ginny opened her mouth to argue, but before she could say anything, Fleur instructed, “Open your eyes and look up at the ceiling.”
It was hard to focus her eyes. Ginny could almost feel them filling with tears as Fleur applied mascara to her lashes.
“How did you feel on your wedding day?” Ginny asked Fleur, trying her hardest not to either cry or blink.
“Probably the same as you. ‘Appy, but also a little nervous.”
Ginny looked down from the ceiling and at her sister-in-law. “Really?”
“Yes. I wanted ze day to be perfect, and zere was a war going on, so…”
“So, you weren’t nervous about actually getting married? You didn’t have any… second thoughts or anything?”
Fleur seemed to consider Ginny’s question. When she answered, she did so with a small and almost secretive looking smile:
“Yes.”
“You did?” Ginny was relieved, for some reason. “What about?”
“What are your second thoughts about?” Fleur asked. Ginny sighed.
“I dunno, I just… I’ve worked really hard to get to where I am, Quidditch-wise. I’m worried that once I’m married, no one will care that I’ve done that, they’ll just think of me as Harry’s wife and not my own person, because I won’t be, will I? I’ll be Mrs Potter, not Ginny Weasley, not… Not me.”
Ginny cast a look at herself in the mirror. She never usually wore white, it was too easily dirtied, and she couldn’t remember the last time her hair had been restrained in such an intricate up-do. Even her freckles had been covered with makeup. She scowled at her own reflection.
“I already don’t look like me,” she muttered. “What’s to stop me from just slowly disappearing altogether?”
“I cannot imagine zat will ever ‘appen.”
“It almost did, once,” said Ginny. Fleur was looking at her, and she avoided meeting her eye. “Back when I was younger, that year… That diary, his diary… I put so much of myself into it, I poured myself into it, and before I knew it, there was almost none of me left. I was nearly lost forever, and I…” Her voice tailed off. “I don’t want to lose myself, not ever, not to anyone or for anything.”
Fleur put one hand to Ginny’s hair. For a moment, Ginny thought she might stroke it, the way she had Victoire’s, but instead, she reached back and undid one of the clips. A strand of Ginny’s hair came loose.
“I can see zis,” Fleur said, reaching for another hairclip, “but I don’t zink it is something you need to worry about. Zat diary, it was evil. It wanted you to lose yourself. ‘Arry would never want zat for you, ‘e just wants you, as you are. It is all ‘e ever wanted.”
Ginny took a deep breath. Yet more locks of her hair tumbled around her shoulders as more clips were removed, and Fleur continued:
“Getting married, it does not mean zat you are losing yourself. You are gaining another piece for yourself, making a family zat is yours and someone else’s. It means you ‘ave to share, but you must be used to sharing, with all those brothers you ‘ave.” She chuckled softly, and Ginny felt her own lips twitch. It was true, she was used to sharing. “The only piece of yourself you are giving up is your name, which you don’t ‘ave to do. And zat was ever really your name, either. It is all your family’s name, no? And even if you don’t have zeir name, you are not going to lose your family. Especially your family. You are all very stubborn.”
In spite of everything, in spite of herself, Ginny laughed out loud. Fleur smiled triumphantly and nodded her head at the mirror.
“See? You look more like yourself now.”
Fleur was right. Ginny’s hair was now almost entirely loose, a mane of red curls framing her face. Her freckles were still invisible, but her laugh had caused her cheeks to dimple and her brown eyes to shine with mirth.
Thinking about it, Fleur was right about a lot of things. Harry was not Tom Riddle. He had nothing of Tom Riddle about him, not anymore. And even when he had, he had never once allowed it to consume him, not the way the diary had consumed her. He had never wanted anything from Ginny, except for her to be… well, Ginny. Not Ginny Weasley, not Ginny Potter, just Ginny. In all the time she had been making a name for herself, Harry had accepted her and loved her for herself.
And she loved him. Had accepted him, the way her family had accepted him as one of their own. He might not have their name, but he was still a part of them. She would still be a part of them, even if she didn’t have their name anymore. She wouldn’t lose them.
Harry had lost his family. All he had left of them was their name, the one that was written on a pair of tombstones in the graveyard behind the church in which she stood, where he was standing at the altar waiting for her. Waiting to begin their life together, to share that life together.
There was a knock on the bathroom door, and Ginny’s father’s voice sounded from the other side of it.
“It’s eleven, Ginny. Are you ready?”
Ginny glanced at Fleur, and again at the bathroom mirror, where her own face stared back at her, defiant and stubborn and entirely her own.
“I’m ready.”
71 notes
·
View notes