The Sugar Quill
Author: Mosylu (Professors' Bookshelf)  Story: Home is Where the Heart Is  Chapter: Chapter Two
Next Chapter
The distribution of this story is for personal use only. Any other form of distribution is prohibited without the consent of the author.

Part 2

It was high summer, and the Burrow was in a fever of excitement. Fred was finally marrying Angelina, and Weasleys and Johnsons were pouring in from every corner of England. Since, like the Weasleys, the Johnsons scorned the idea of a nuclear family with less than five members, the Burrow was bursting at the seams.

One person, however, had not yet showed up to claim his bed in Ron’s room.

"I’d’ve thought Harry would’ve come back for this, at least," Ron mumbled, so morose he almost forgot to swipe a fingerful of the icing Ginny was stirring in a bowl. "We sent him--ow!--an invitation." He sucked his knuckles where she had whacked him with the spoon.

"Maybe Pig got lost," George suggested.

Ron sent him a killing look. "My owl doesn’t get lost," he said. "He’s a bit stupid about what he does when he gets there, but he does not bloody get lost."

Ginny was able to laugh at this. It was so like Ron--he could complain all he wanted about Pig, but let anyone else so much as utter a bad word and Ron was flaring up in defense.

But she sat that night on the back porch, watching Percy and Charlie going at it hammer and tongs over the arrangement of the yard--"Look, if you do it that way, the sun’s going to be all in everyone’s eyes--" "But this way, it’s easier to move the chairs for the dancing!"--she couldn’t help but be worried. While his letters had become a little more frequent, they hadn’t heard from Harry since Ron had sent the invitation a month earlier. What if he’d never recieved it? At Christmas, when Fred had told him, he’d said he wouldn’t miss it--and Harry kept his word on things like that, usually. What if he was somewhere in great danger and couldn’t even get word to them, much less come to a wedding?

She shook herself. Harry was a strong, smart, capable man. He’d been wandering for nearly a year now, and by his own admission he’d run across some rather strange things in that time. He could probably handle himself.

But she still had to worry.

And worse yet--what if he was perfectly fine? What if he just didn’t want to come back because of her?

She finally got up and went into the house, leaving the argument behind her.

* * *

Morning came, with no Harry. Ron’s face was even longer than Hermione’s. Even Mrs. Weasley, as involved as she was in preparation, was worried, but there was very little time to discuss it. All was chaos.

Ginny came downstairs to tell her mother where the bridesmaids’ shoes were (a box in the hall closet) and was promptly drafted to hold little Amos as Penny, who had a dab hand with decoration charms, put the finishing touches on the mountainous cake. She took her nephew willingly. "Hello, darling boy," she cooed, propping him on her hip. "D’you want to walk about with Auntie Ginny for a time?"


Taking that as a "yes", she carried him out of the tumult of the kitchen and into the yard, which was no less tumultuous. Charlie and Percy had reached an accord on the placement of the chairs, but they still had to be all set up. Bill was helping them with it, with the result that at least three chairs were in the air at any given time, and usually more. Ginny stayed out of the way.

Amos recognized his father and started to babble loudly, reaching out his hands. Percy came over and Ginny passed the baby to him. "It looks nice, Percy," she said.

"Charlie saw reason," Percy said smugly. "Ouch! Amos, stop it--" Amos had a chunk of his father’s hair in a tight grasp. Percy’s son seemed to like hair, especially Weasley hair.

Percy’s son--how strange to think that her big brother, whom she had seen on his first day of school, and fighting with her other brothers, and in his awkward teenage gangliness, was married and had a child of his own. As he sighed and smiled at the same time at Amos’s stubborness, Ginny was swamped with a wave of envy.

Percy was right where he wanted to be. He had the job he wanted, he had the mate he wanted, and he had the first of the children he wanted.

Charlie and Bill, although lacking the second two parts, were happy with their lives. Fred and George, with their joke shop and their fiancèes (one of whom would be a wife soon) were happy too. Even Ron, low on the totem pole as he was at MLES, was ecstatic to have it, along with Hermione and their . . . whatever. All her brothers had found what they were looking for.

And where was she?

Still waiting for her life to begin.

Bill and Charlie had come over to pass the baby around between them. As the first baby of the new generation, Amos was thoroughly spoiled and loving it. At the moment, he was gnawing on the base of Charlie’s wand.

Percy was frowning. "Don’t let him eat that, Charlie--"

"Oh, lighten up, Perce," Charlie said. "The worst he can do is make sparks."

Percy took the wand away and handed Amos back to Ginny before he could start bellowing at the loss of his toy. "I think you’d better take him to the front yard," he said. "We’ve got to finish setting up before people get here."

Charlie, wiping his drooled-upon wand on his robes, gave Ginny a grin. "We’ll be fine, Perce," he said, and to Ginny, "I’ll be around front to play with him once we’re done. I don’t get to see him enough. He’ll forget I exist."

"That’s because you never come home," Ginny said, and bore Amos away.

She was lying on her stomach in the grass, tickling his nose with a few blades to make him giggle, when he looked up over her head. She looked up too, expecting to see Charlie or Bill, or both.

It was Harry.

"You came," she said inanely, squinting up at him. The sun was directly behind him, blinding her.

"I did promise," he said.

"I know, but--"


"You didn’t write."

"I know. I’m sorry." He set his bag and broom down on the grass and crouched, touching one long finger to Amos’s bright hair.

"Percy and Penny’s son," Ginny explained. She couldn’t stop looking at him, now that she could without the sun interfering. His hair was longer, curling gently around the nape of his neck and falling untidily into his eyes. One of the white tufts was in the middle of his fringe, standing out brightly. Three, four, five . . . There were no more of them, thank goodness. He was more tanned than he had been at Christmastime, and his robes were a little more ragged.

He looked wonderful.

"Amos," Harry said. "Ron wrote."

Ginny said gently, "We were hoping you’d come back for the christening." She couldn’t help herself--she’d wished so hard . . .

"I got the invitation," Harry said, withdrawing his hand from Amos’s little head. "I was in South Africa, and I was . . . in the middle of something. I wanted to come, but I couldn’t."

He looked up at her, and some of the doubt must have showed in her eyes, for he said, "I--really. I couldn’t leave."

Ginny felt at a disadvantage, lying down while Harry crouched, so she pushed herself to a sitting position and held her arms out to Amos. Always willing to be carried, he held up his own arms, and she picked him up and settled him before rising to her feet.

Harry got to his feet too. "Seems odd--you being an aunt--"

Ginny’s mouth quirked up. "Why? The only wonder is that it hasn’t happened before."

Harry smiled a little, at himself. "I know, but I can’t imagine it for myself, and you’re so much younger than I am . . ."

Her brows drew together. "I’m not so young as all that, Harry Potter. I’ve left Hogwarts."

He looked at her sharply. Had he forgotten? "You’re sixteen."

"Seventeen." Did she look sixteen? She’d always been a year and three months younger than he. It wasn’t something that was likely to have changed.

"Still--I’m nineteen," he said.

"I’ll be eighteen in October," she said, her voice a little sharper than she’d meant it to be. "I’m not a child."

He looked at her until her stomach started to jump. Then he said in a soft voice, "It’d be easier if you were."

He remembered, all right, she realized suddenly. Oh, yes, he remembered--but he didn’t want to, for some reason, acknowledge that she was as grown as he was. He would’ve preferred her to be a child still.

Now this was a pretty pickle.

Fortunately, Amos chose that uncomfortable moment to grab her hair. "Oh! Amos--let go--"

"I’ve got it--" Harry gently disentangled her hair from the chubby, clutching fngers.

"Thank you," she said, shifting Amos slightly. The baby had latched onto Harry’s finger and was gumming the very tip of it. Harry was watching, fascinated.

Ginny realized that, quite apart from her own extensive experience with cousins and neighbors, Harry had probably never had much contact with babies. "Would you like to hold him?" she offered.

He instinctively drew back. "But I’ve--never--"

"You’d better learn, then, " she said, holding Amos out so that Harry had no choice but to take him. "Especially if you’re going to be associated with this family. There--set him on your hip--one arm under his bum--there. That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

Like the natural athlete he was, Harry had instinctively adjusted the curve of his spine to balance out the weight of the baby, and Amos looked perfectly comfortable. Harry looked dazed, and then fascinated again by the tiny piece of life he held in his arms.

The baby reached out, and Ginny winced. But instead of grabbing for Harry’s hair, or earlobe, or even his glasses, Amos patted Harry very softly on the face with his tiny hands.

Harry blinked several times--he must have been braced for a grab, as well. Then he smiled his slow sweet smile and said, "What d’you think? Do I rate?" to the baby.

Ginny was surprised into a giggling sort of snort. Ron made horrible fun of her for talking to the baby as if he could talk back, and here was Harry doing the exact same thing--

"She’s laughing at us," Harry told the baby indignantly. "Listen to that."

Amos burbled.

* * *

After Ginny had given into good manners, taken Amos back, and sent Harry inside to deposit himself in Ron’s room, she barely got a chance to see him. She had to be bundled away for the necessary brushing and lacquering and female things that accompanied a bridesmaid’s duties.

She was distracted throughout the process, wondering if Harry remembered his promise at New Year’s, wondering if he’d thought of her, wondering . . . just wondering.


She looked up. "Sorry, Mum, what?"

Her mother half-laughed at her. "Nervous, dear?"

"No," she answered honestly. "Distracted."

"Well, stand up and let’s have a look at you."

Ginny stood obediently, and gave a little twirl. She knew what she looked like--she’d seen herself in the full-length mirror. Her silky robes were a lovely blue-green color and fell rippling to the floor. Hermione had pulled her hair sleekly back from her face, so it shone like polished copper, and had firmly vetoed the idea of putting on more than absolutely minimal makeup. Ginny had argued this, until she’d realized with the sleek hair and the simple robes, too much makeup would just look ridiculous.

Her mother looked at her for so long, however, that Ginny began to get nervous. "Mum?"’

"Oh--Ginny--" Her mother’s voice was choked. "When did this happen?"

Alarmed, all Ginny could say was, "What?"

"When did you go and grow up on me?" Her mother gave a great sniff and wiped away tears.

"Oh, Mum . . ."

Her mum flapped a hand at her. "Sit down, dear, I need to give you something."

Ginny sat again, starting to get a little teary-eyed herself. Her mother reached in a pocket of her dress robes and brought out a tiny box, which she opened to reveal a pearl pendent on a thin gold chain.

"Your gran gave this to me when I left Hogwarts," she said, her voice steady again. "My own gran had given it to her when she was the same age. It’s been passed down to the eldest daughters for hundreds of years." She undid the clasp and slipped the chain around Ginny’s throat. "I didn’t know quite when to give it to you," she went on, fumbling with fastening the clasp, "but I think--now is the time."

It settled into place, the pearl resting just below the hollow of her throat. Ginny lifted a trembling hand to touch it, this ornament of womanhood. "Mum . . ."

Her mother had to wipe her eyes again. "It’s so hard to believe you’re already done with school," she said in a voice as wobbly as Ginny’s own. "I remember what I was like at your age. I felt as if I could change the world, or at least own it--but you know--when it came right down to it--" She sighed. "When it came right down to it, all I really wanted was your father. It was terribly old-fashioned for those days, and the way things are these days, well--I--I don’t expect you to understand that, but--"

"No," Ginny said. "I do. I understand perfectly, Mum."

Their eyes met in the mirror, the same shade of brown. Her mum started to say something, but at that moment, the door bounced open.

"Come on, you two," George bellowed, "everyone’s waiting--"

And the moment was lost.

Write a review! PLEASE NOTE: The purpose of reviewing a story or piece of art at the Sugar Quill is to provide comments that will be useful to the author/artist. We encourage you to put a bit of thought into your review before posting. Please be thoughtful and considerate, even if you have legitimate criticism of a story or artwork. (You may click here to read other reviews of this work).
* = Required fields
*Sugar Quill Forums username:
*Sugar Quill Forums password:
If you do not have a Sugar Quill Forums username, please register. Bear in mind that it may take up to 72 hours for your account to be approved. Thank you for your patience!
The Sugar Quill was created by Zsenya and Arabella. For questions, please send us an Owl!

-- Powered by SQ3 : Coded by David : Design by James --