NOW
For the past three years or so, Ginny Weasley has begun every first date the same way: by reminding the man sitting across from her that she has a daughter. It’s a reminder because she usually tells them for the first time before they make any plans at all; she doesn’t want to waste anyone’s time, but more to the point, she doesn’t want to waste her own. If someone isn’t all right with Rowan, she’d rather know before she develops any feelings or attachments.
It isn’t like she’s asking these blokes to be Rowan’s father. She has a father — an objectively great father at that. Harry is very busy, but he always makes time for Rowan, who similarly adores her dad. Still, it’s impossible for Ginny, being a single mother, to date anyone who doesn’t implicitly understand that her daughter comes first and who isn’t open to growing to love Rowan themselves. Which is, Ginny realizes, probably why she hasn’t really dated anyone since her relationship with Harry ended for good.
Rowan is a more complicating factor in her dating life than Ginny, only 27 years of age, would care to admit. It’s unusual for a woman her age to have a four year old and still be dating around — even more unusual when she reveals that she’s never been married. The men she dates are usually curious — a curiosity bordering on suspicion — about how she ended up with a kid in the first place. The brief overview is that birth control potions are, apparently, susceptible to failure (this is where she’s careful to mention that she now has an potion-administering implant, which doesn’t offer the same room for user error) and even though she believes in abortion rights, it was not the right choice for her at the time. The reaction to this story does vary: some men roll their eyes at her, some tell her she’s brave (as if she wasn’t a bloody Gryffindor in school). Almost all of them want to know what her relationship to her child’s father is now.
And that’s the question, isn’t it? Whether she likes it or not, Harry is perhaps a bigger block to her having a normal dating life than Rowan is. And it’s not because they’re together: they haven’t been — not in any sense of the word — for three years, not since they broke up shortly after Rowan’s first birthday. No, they’re just friends and co-parents, and if there’s still a lot of love between them? Well, Ginny would say that’s normal. At this point, she reasons, it’s a platonic sort of love, one that’s only romantic in the sense that it was, once upon a time. How could she not love the person who gave her the gift of being the mum of her very favorite person in the world? How could she not remain friends with the person who understands everything: everything they’re going through and everything they’ve been through that led them here?
It doesn’t matter to men that she and Harry aren’t involved romantically, however, because the fact that they remain friends is damning enough. Never mind that having two parents who actually get along (even if they can’t do the relationship thing) is what’s best for Rowan; men would be more comfortable with Ginny hating the father of her daughter. Which is why she can’t date anyone who doesn’t understand that his pride does not supersede her daughter’s well-being. Which is why she hasn’t gone on more than three dates with any one person in three years.
She reasons that it’s just as well, really. Between Rowan and work and family obligations, she doesn’t have much free time; the two nights she gets to herself on a good week are better spent catching up with friends or taking a bubble bath with a glass of wine and turning in early. Not once has she regretted choosing a night in over drinks with one of the self-absorbed quidditch players she meets through her job as the junior Sports Correspondent for The Daily Prophet or the young wizards everyone from Hermione and her boyfriend to Harry’s literal mother is keen to set her up with.
When she does go on dates, it’s really only because she misses sex — and given her situation, that’s not really a good reason to dive headfirst into a relationship. Especially because none of the sex she’s had in the last three years can even begin to compare to what she once had with Harry. And if she’s going to go through the trouble of adding a new person to her life and Rowan’s, shouldn’t he be just as good in bed as her last boyfriend always was?
Not that she wants to have sex with Harry again. He’s her friend now — her best friend — and what they have is stable and safe. It’s what’s best for Rowan, so it’s what’s best for them. And if, from time to time, Ginny misses Harry’s lips on hers or the way they fit perfectly together? She reckons that’s normal, too. It’s not real. She’s just approaching her late twenties and a lot of her friends are getting engaged or married or pregnant (the planned kind, mostly); meanwhile, she hasn’t found anything worth pursuing since breaking up with Harry, and she’s truthfully not sure she ever will. It’s only natural that she’d feel lonely and that her loneliness would breed nostalgia.
So although she turns down many dates, she says yes to the most promising invitations, because she can’t find it if she never tries. And every date that fails reminds her that she needs to keep being selective. Unlike many women in their late twenties, Ginny Weasley doesn’t have the luxury of dating around and seeing where things go, or of lining up dates every night of the week until one finally sticks. Nor can she go on a great date that lasts for days — like the ones she had with Harry in the days before pregnancy, before Rowan. There’s far too much at stake.
Most of the time, Ginny isn’t thinking about the pitiful state of her love life, however; she doesn’t often have the time or energy to devote to it. Taking care of a rambunctious four year old while working full-time means a packed schedule and low energy reserves, even on her best days. But the thought creeps into her mind as she walks the familiar kilometer-long path between Harry’s flat and her own.
She’s just dropped Rowan off for the night, and though Harry invited her to stay for dinner, she couldn’t bring herself to intrude on his time with their daughter. Harry doesn’t have much time off in a given week — the unfortunate consequence of his chosen career path and the near-decade of training that accompanies it — but nearly all of the spare time he does have is devoted to Rowan. It’s rare that Rowan can actually spend an entire night with her dad in the middle of the week like this; though Ginny would like nothing more than to eat pizza on Harry’s couch and pretend that they’re a real family, if only for a few hours, she chooses to protect the precious one-on-one time the girl has been gifted and takes her own leave.
It’s a somewhat-soggy fall day in London, the kind where it’s rained only enough to soak the gold leaves littering the sidewalk and to build the sort of humidity that makes her sweat through the coat it’s too cold for her to shed. The sky is grey and moody, and something about a cloudy atmosphere has always drawn Ginny into her own darkest thoughts. It only figures that her spirits are lower and she’s dreading the night to herself by the time she reaches her building.
She gets the feeling she’s got a visitor as soon as she reaches her flat. The unit itself is warded like crazy, but there are a few people — Harry, Hermione, Harry’s parents, her own parents — who have access even when she’s not home. Sure enough, she opens the door to her flat to see Hermione’s mass of voluminous curls and eager expression. Hermione jumps up to explain herself, but Ginny beats her to speaking: “I hate to disappoint you, but Harry has her tonight. You picked the wrong flat.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “I’m not here for Rowan, and I try not to intrude upon her time with Harry anyway —”
“Kind of you, since you don’t seem to have qualms with intruding on my time with her,” Ginny quips. She doesn’t really blame Hermione — or anyone, for that matter — for choosing to visit the little girl when she’s with her mother, given that her quality time with her father is limited as it is. She hangs her coat on the rack and then moves to hug Hermione, a proper greeting. “It’s good to see you. How’d you know I was craving company?”
Hermione laughs nervously. “Well, I didn’t, I suppose,” she admits, leading Ginny back to her own couch. “But I spoke to Harry earlier and he mentioned having Rowan tonight, so I thought I’d check in!”
“Didn’t want to spend the night with your boyfriend?” Ginny waggles her eyebrows suggestively. Hermione’s face immediately reddens; it’s almost too easy to tease her, even as she inches closer to thirty years old.
“He’s in Paris for work,” Hermione explains after taking a moment to collect herself. Ginny nods with understanding: Hermione’s boyfriend often travels for work. “Anyway, do I need an excuse to see you?”
Ginny shrugs. “Of course not. But if I had a fit boyfriend at home, I wouldn’t be showing up unannounced at your flat, so you can’t exactly blame me for questioning your motives, can you?” Now it’s Ginny’s turn to blush; she and Hermione talk about many things, but sex has never really been one of them. Now that she’s all but admitted to her friend that she’s so randy she can’t imagine not prioritizing sex if it’s available, the topic feels a bit unavoidable.
But Hermione isn’t stiff — at least, she isn’t anymore. She simply laughs heartily, a rich sound that echoes off the high ceilings of the living room. “You could, you know.”
“I could what?”
“Have a fit boyfriend. If you wanted to.” Reading Ginny’s disbelieving stare, Hermione laughs again. “You’re beautiful, smart, funny — and you can intelligently discuss quidditch. Objectively speaking, you’re exactly what most single wizards are looking for.”
There’s a glaring omission on Hermione’s end, however. “Most single wizards aren’t looking for a witch who already has a kid with a different single wizard, though,” Ginny points out. There’s an odd flutter in her stomach at the offhanded observation that Harry is, himself, a fit, single wizard; she writes it off as misplaced.
“If you don’t want to date because you’d prefer to wait for Harry to finish his training, you can just say that,” Hermione informs her, sounding unaffected and disinterested. “I won’t judge you.” Even as she says it, though, Ginny can’t help but think Hermione’s tone is a little judgmental. It could be more of a told you so thing, though. It can be difficult to tell with Hermione.
Rotely, Ginny rolls her eyes and repeats a line she’s said so many times before. “I’m not waiting for Harry. We — as in Harry-and-Ginny the couple — are over, you know that. It’s better this way.” Objectively, Ginny knows these statements are true, but that doesn’t mean she’s capable of sounding fully convinced of the fact. Before Hermione can interject that just because they’re over now, it doesn’t mean they need to be forever, Ginny adds: “I just can’t really have anyone around Rowan if they’re not going to stick and I barely have time to figure out if they’re going to before it becomes clear they aren’t interested in dating a single mum.” She strides toward the kitchen and selects a bottle of pinot noir from the cupboard; she uncorks it with her wand and begins pouring into two glasses.
Hermione sighs dramatically. “That excuse has an expiration date, you know,” she points out, an eyebrow raised.
“It’s not an excuse,” Ginny protests, trying not to sound petulant and failing miserably.
“Okay,” Hermione shrugs. It’s clear from her tone and general demeanor that she doesn’t believe Ginny for a second. “But, you know, if you ever decide you’re open to it, we have a list of wizards we’ve vetted, all of whom are fine with dating a single mum.” It’s obvious who the we in question is — Hermione and her boyfriend love to meddle and play matchmaker. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“It’s not that I’m not ready,” Ginny tries to explain. But she doesn’t know what it is, either, so she presses her lips into a thin line and doesn’t elaborate further.
Hermione studies Ginny’s expression with something between thoughtfulness and utter boredom. They have this conversation at least every other month. After a few moments, her eyes widen and a slow smile creeps onto her face: Hermione Granger has had an idea. “What are you doing next Wednesday?”
Ginny shakes her head. “No. I am not going on a date.” To make a point, she picks her calendar up off her coffee table. The calendar is charmed — which Hermione knows, because she’s the one who charmed it — so that Ginny and Harry can manage their custody schedule through it. Flipping to Wednesday, Ginny turns the page around and aggressively taps it with her finger. “Anyway, as you can see, I have a family dinner on Wednesday.”
“A family dinner with the Potters ,” Hermione singsongs, her Cheshire cat smile only growing. The implication is clear: she’s offering her friend a chance to meet single wizards and Ginny is, instead, choosing to socialize with her ex-boyfriend — who she is definitely not still in love with — and his parents.
“So? It’s for Sirius’ birthday, so I couldn’t tell Lily I’d just drop Rowan off when she invited me. It’s basically a command performance,” Ginny insists. The truth is that she often feels closer to Lily and James — Harry’s parents — than she does to her own mum and dad; Harry’s family became a huge source of support for her while she was pregnant with Rowan, and that didn’t end when her relationship with Harry did. “I think James even convinced McGonagall to let Phoebe come home for dinner — I wouldn’t want to miss a chance to see her, either.”
Hermione sighs. “All right, I’m not going to force you to come to a charity event with us, then,” she tells Ginny. The Brightest Witch of Her Age recognizes a lost cause when she sees one. “But only because it’s Sirius’ birthday and Phoebe is coming. Otherwise, dinner with the Potters is not a good enough reason not to mingle.”
“Is the fact that I hate charity events a good enough reason not to mingle?” Ginny asks drily.
“If you ever want to meet men who aren’t Harry, you have to try something. Unless, of course, you have no interest in meeting men who aren’t Harry.” Hermione can’t resist one last chance to give Ginny that opening.
But Ginny doesn’t take it. “Next one, I promise.” It’s a promise she doesn’t really intend to keep.
…
When you’re young and carefree and your life hasn’t yet been taken over by a girl with your copper hair and her father’s emerald eyes, everyone tells you that children will change everything. They tell you that you’ll lose sleep, deal with tantrums and tummy aches, and answer endless questions both mundane and profound. They tell you that there’s a kind of special, unconditional love you’ll only know once you hold your baby for the first time, and that you will do absolutely anything to protect the precious life you shepherded into the world.
What they don’t tell you is that kids come with loads and loads of stuff.
Bringing Rowan to Potter Manor — the sprawling estate near Cambridge where Harry grew up — even for a weeknight dinner presents a challenge, simply because of the sheer number of things Ginny has to lug there in addition to a hyper-energetic four year old. Harry’s parents stock the essentials at their house, of course: snacks, clothes, pajama sets, art supplies, and nearly every toy the girl could want are organized neatly in the room Lily and James have designated for their treasured only grandchild. But there are other things that need to come with them: Rowan’s favorite stuffed unicorn, her lucky purple cup, the fuschia crayon she’s become attached to this week, a folder of artwork she’d made for her Aunt Phoebe, and Sirius’ birthday gift — among other things — all have to fit into Ginny’s bag if she wants to still have a hand available to make sure her daughter arrives with her.
It’s times like these where Ginny allows herself to think it would have been really great if she and Harry had worked out. She sometimes feels that parenting is a job that was designed to be done with two sets of hands.
When they step out of the fireplace into the sitting room at Potter Manor, Harry is sitting with Sirius by the fire. His godfather has a short glass with two fingers of neat firewhiskey, but Harry is nursing a cup of tea, looking dead tired. His black curls are more disheveled than usual and he’s got pronounced dark bags under his eyes, his olive skin looking particularly washed out so as to almost be pale. He’s changed out of his work clothes — he’s in jeans and one of the soft cashmere jumpers he favors, this one in a bronzed shade of green — but he still wears the stress of his job like an accessory. Both men look toward the fireplace as it roars to life and, oblivious to her father’s exhaustion, Rowan bounds toward him: “Daddy!”
Harry can’t drop his mug of tea onto the end table quickly enough as he opens his arms to greet his little girl. “Ro!” His face lights up and there’s energy in it that he didn’t seem to possess only moments ago, as if he’s a muggle toy and her presence has replaced his battery. Rowan practically leaps into his midsection, wrapping her small arms as far as they will go; Harry’s envelope her as he returns her hug with a tight squeeze of his own and plants a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I miss you, Daddy,” Rowan mumbles, just barely audible, and it makes Ginny’s heart clench. A four year old shouldn’t have to miss her father, but it’s a phase the child says all too often.
“I missed you, too, Ro,” Harry tells her. “But we’re all here now.” He releases the embrace and Rowan immediately climbs onto his lap, making herself right at home.
“For Padfoot’s birfday,” Rowan exclaims happily, looking over at Sirius — who refers to himself as her great-godfather — and telling him: “Happy birfday! How old are you? I’m four!” She holds up four fingers to punctuate her statement, as if a single person in the Potters' orbit could forget her age.
“How old do you think I am?” Sirius asks her in return, cocking his head to the side playfully; the mannerism looks exceedingly familiar, because he does the same thing when he’s in his animagus form, a black dog.
“Mmmmmmm,” Rowan scrunches up her nose —pert, like her mother's, but without the same prominent freckles — thoughtfully. “Maybe thirty-twee, or maybe fifty-five!” She knows her mother is 27 and her father, 28, and Sirius must be bigger than that; beyond that, she has little concept of aging in grownups.
Sirius’ bark of a laugh vibrates off the walls. “Manages to compliment and insult me at the same time.” Harry’s godfather is clearly amused, even though his real age — 49 — is not one that the girl guessed. “Teach your daughter some manners,” he admonishes Harry playfully, before standing to greet Ginny. “I’m sure that was all Harry’s influence,” he assures Ginny as he kisses her cheek in greeting.
“Must be,” Ginny agrees with a hearty laugh. “Happy birthday, Sirius. You don’t look a day over thirty-twee,” she assures him impishly, making special care to employ her daughter’s pronunciation. “It’s almost like you’re Harry’s brother and not James’!”
Another bark of laughter as Sirius turns back to Harry. “Let’s work on making Little Potter here more like her mum and less like you!”
“Hey!” Harry scoffs, with put-on offense.
“I’m not little,” Rowan interjects, never one to be left out of a conversation. “I'm big!”
“I’m sorry, Rowan,” Sirius pointedly apologizes only to the girl. “I never should have called you little.”
“I’m big,” the girl repeats, satisfied. “I’m four!”
“Too true,” Sirius agrees, eyes twinkling. “You know, Rowan, your grandmum and grandad are in the kitchen, and I think Grandad needs some help putting sprinkles on the cake. Do you know a big girl who might be up for the job?” He raises an eyebrow.
The little girl’s eyes light up and she nearly kicks her dad in the bollocks trying to get off his lap; Harry winces at the close call. “Me,” she cheers, not waiting for Sirius or her parents before she takes off sprinting toward the kitchen. Sirius tilts his glass to indicate he plans to follow her, leaving Harry and Ginny alone in the sitting room.
“Hi,” Harry greets her, getting up to kiss her cheek. There’s still a hint of a spark, a warmth that his lips leave as they brush against her skin, and Ginny briefly wonders if Harry feels it too. He surveys her, taking in her loose copper hair, neat tartan skirt, and black turtleneck jumper, before commenting: “You look nice.” His cheeks pink up a bit, and it’s only noticeable because he’s so sallow to begin with.
“Thanks,” Ginny smirks, somewhat emboldened by his clear reaction to seeing her. It’s validating, she tells herself, a justification. “I washed my hair yesterday,” she jokes.
“It suits you.” His eyes flick up and down once again in appreciation.
“Wish I could say the same for you. But you look like shit,” she observes bluntly; they’re still close enough as friends that she feels he deserves the truth from her. “I mean, that color is nice on you, but your skin is all grey.”
“Thanks so much,” Harry responds sarcastically. Then, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, he adds: “It’s been a rough few days.” Ginny, of course, could ask why that is. Because they are friends, and that’s the kind of thing friends ask each other. But the truth is that it almost certainly has to do with his job — the kind of medical case that’s just at a dead end in terms of progress, maybe — and Ginny tries to know as little about that as she possibly can. She can’t help that she resents his work more than a little bit. If he’d done anything else — even a different healing specialty that required less training — they might still be together.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ginny frowns. She’s unsure of how she can help if she’s not willing or able to let him vent to her. “If you need Friday night to just rest, I can just tell Rowan you’re sick —”
“No,” Harry cuts her off, tone firm. “Friday, I’m picking her up from nursery, and we’re going to that muggle pottery painting place and to get milkshakes.” The burst of energy is back as he talks about their daughter. “I’m not going to miss time with her.” There’s an edge to his voice — a sort of ferocity — that takes Ginny aback. He must notice the alarm on her face, because he adds: “I, er, had a patient this week that reminded me why we need to spend as much time as we can with our families, yeah? He was in an explosion and we worked so hard for days but ultimately, we lost him. The brain damage was just too great, beyond magical repair. And it reminded me of —”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because the fire roars to life once again. It’s not like he needed to complete the thought anyway — Ginny knows exactly who and what Harry was reminded of. They share a solemn, loaded glance as Phoebe, Harry’s soon-to-be sixteen year old sister, steps out of the floo.
“You look like shit, Harry,” Phoebe tells her brother in lieu of a greeting as she gathers her loose reddish-brown waves and ties her hair into a messy bun immediately after entering the room.
“Nice,” Harry scoffs. “Rowan is now the only woman in my life not to tell me those exact words tonight.”
“Great minds,” Phoebe quips drily, wasting no time in kicking off the black school shoes on her feet. “Anyway, this is why I am not taking any pamphlets on healing when career counseling starts next term. I rather like looking my best.”
“Well, Remus knows you well enough to know you’d never get the scores to enter the academy in the first place, let alone stay there,” Harry teases. He’s usually sweet and nurturing with his sister, who was born when he was twelve, and it’s one of the reasons Ginny never once doubted he’d be a great father; but they’re still siblings, and they can nag and taunt with the best of them.
“Sod off,” Phoebe rolls her eyes. “They let you in, so how hard could it be?”
Harry doesn’t get a chance to respond before the fire glows green once more and deposits a second guest from Hogwarts in the form of Remus Lupin. Ginny first knew the man as Professor Lupin, her Defense Against the Dark Arts professor during her years at Hogwarts; to Harry, however, the man was Remus, one of his parents’ and godfather’s closest friends. Of course he’d be here tonight; Ginny doesn’t know why she’s surprised to see him.
“Remus,” Harry lights up, going to give the man a hug. Ginny remembers, briefly, that although Harry had always known he wanted to be a healer — and thus, worked hard in every class required for admission to the academy — defense had always been his favorite subject and Remus, his favorite teacher. Although the wizard in front of them had been an uncle to Harry his whole life, Ginny’s brother — Harry’s best friend — had once told her that they’d never actually bonded until Harry started school.
Remus firmly claps Harry on the back, before turning to Ginny. “Ah, Ginny, so good to see you!”
“You as well!” It’s funny, that as much time as Ginny spends with the Potters, she always feels a bit like she’s fifteen again and sitting in the defense classroom every time she sees Remus.
“Does Rowan know I’m coming?” Phoebe butts in to ask Ginny; Harry winces at this, too. It always stings that people direct most questions about their daughter to Ginny, though he knows he doesn’t have any right to be offended. Ginny takes note of this and offers him an encouraging smile, because he’s a good dad and this is all a feature of their agreement rather than a bug. “I was really hoping it would be a surprise.”
“Your brother ruined that one, I’m afraid,” Ginny frowns sympathetically as she turns her direction to Phoebe. “Rowan came home from Harry’s on Sunday, babbling about how excited she was to see you.”
Harry holds up his hands, demonstrating a lack of guilt. “In my defense, Dad was the one who told her and you never told either of us that you wanted it to be a surprise.”
Phoebe sighs, rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything. She knows it’s true, and it does sound like their father. “Where’d my darling niece go?”
“In the kitchen with your parents and Sirius,” Ginny tells her breezily. “They tempted her with promises of sprinkles and cake decorating.”
“They would,” Phoebe agrees, a playful seriousness in her tone. “D’you mind if I borrow her?”
“I don’t mind, but your mum might,” Ginny laughs, grabbing her bag to walk with Phoebe toward the Potters’ massive kitchen. “I've got a bunch of drawings she made for you in my bag. I’m sure she’ll want to give them to you immediately, so I’ll tag along.”
“Brilliant. I needed some new drawings for my quidditch locker!” Phoebe links an arm through Ginnys and begins to guide her to the kitchen.
As they walk away, Ginny glances over her shoulder, certain Harry will be following them; the kitchen has his daughter, his parents, his godfather, and, soon, his sister and whatever Ginny is to him. And yet, he remains, murmuring something to Remus that Ginny can’t quite make out, both of them wearing furrowed brows.
By the time Harry and Remus join them in the kitchen, Rowan has finished decorating Sirius’ cake in purple and gold sprinkles shaped like stars and has moved on to explaining each of the pictures she’s drawn for Phoebe in painstaking detail to her captive audience. Ginny, having already heard these descriptions, wears her listening face while mentally reciting her to-do list for the next day in her mind: make breakfast, drop Rowan at school, finish her profile on the seeker for the Ballycastle Bats, write her weekly letter to her mum and dad, pick up Rowan, make dinner, clean the kitchen. She’s thinking about what neutral drabble she can write to her mother when Harry stands next to her and plants a familiar hand on her shoulder, kneading a knot that’s there from holding his daughter and all of her crap with his thumb.
“I think I owe you a massage,” he whispers to Ginny, quietly enough that no one else has their attention pulled from the little girl in the center of the room. Ginny’s eyes widen, wondering if he’s offering the massage himself, but he corrects himself without her needing to say anything. “I’d be happy to pay for you to get one at a spa or something while I have Rowan on Friday. If you’d like.”
She’s about to protest. Being a trainee healer — even near the very end of his training — doesn’t pay particularly well, and Ginny certainly makes more money than Harry does. Then she remembers where she is: Potter Manor, the very symbol of Harry’s considerable generational wealth. Harry’s parents purchased the flat where Ginny lives with their granddaughter, and Harry has always made sure that Ginny and Rowan were comfortable. It was the least he could do, really. So Ginny smiles. “That would be ace,” she admits. There’s no use in pretending parenthood hasn’t been hard on her body from the jump.
Harry nods. “I’ll book you something for Friday,” he confirms, at exactly the moment Rowan has stopped chattering.
Harry’s mum positively lights up and slips away from the circle around her granddaughter to join her son and his ex-girlfriend. “What’s on Friday?” Lily asks casually, busying herself with the open bottle of wine on the counter opposite where Harry and Ginny stand. She pours herself a glass and gestures toward Ginny, asking her if she’d like some. Ginny nods in agreement.
“I have Rowan, so I told Ginny I’m going to send her for a trip to the spa,” Harry informs her, sounding rather self-satisfied with his good deed. He's almost preening, like he expects a pat on the back from his mum for treating his daughter's mother so well.
“You have Rowan?” Lily repeats, her green eyes — the same ones her son and granddaughter have — dancing with excitement.
“Er, yes,” Harry cards his hand through his messy curls. Across the room, Harry’s father James absently performs the same motion. “But, mum, it’s going to just be the two of us, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t invite yourself.”
Lily snorts into her wine glass. “Please, Harry. I wasn’t planning to invite myself. Your father and I have a life, you know, we do have plans two days from now.” She turns to Ginny. “I was actually thinking that if you’re free on Friday, you should join me and James. We’ve got this cocktail party — probably boring, we wouldn’t be going if my friend Mary weren’t visiting from Australia and, you know, it’s been some time since I’ve seen her. But she’s bringing her son, who just moved to London from Melbourne. He’s a potions master, working in the development of aesthetic potions, and very handsome. He is younger than you, but only by a year or two, and I think you’d get along.”
Ginny gulps her glass of wine to buy herself a few moments to speak, and Harry looks like he’s working very hard to keep his mouth shut. Across the room, James shoots his wife a look of annoyance, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by his son; Lily merely shrugs in response. It’s obvious this is a discussion they’ve had many times without resolution.
“You know, that’s so sweet of you to think of me, Lily,” Ginny smiles tightly. She’s delivering the same lines she’s delivered a thousand times, and they flow easily. “But I was looking forward to a night to myself. I’d really rather take Harry up on his offer to send me for a massage.” Next to her, Harry visibly relaxes.
“Oh, but you can get a massage whenever you’d like,” Lily smiles right back. “How often do you get to meet a handsome bloke, eh?” She raises her eyebrow in challenge. Ginny knows Lily Potter quite well, but she can’t say she fully understands why her ex-boyfriend’s mum enjoys trying to set her up.
“Oi! She said no, Evans,” James calls across the room. “Let her go get her massage.” He looks remarkably satisfied as he says it, but Ginny is too grateful to devote any time to wondering why that might be.
“Who say no?” Rowan demands, looking between her grandad, aunt, and great-godfather in hopes that one of them will explain to them.
Ginny beats them to it. “I just told Grandmum that I can’t go to a party on Friday while you’re with Daddy. That’s all.”
“Ohhhh,” Rowan nods, dragging out the syllable as far as she can. “Mummy don’t like parties,” she informs the rest of the room.
But most of the people there — Harry especially — remember that wasn’t always true. In the pre-Rowan era, Ginny loved parties. She was often the life of them. Even when Rowan was a baby, she was usually enthusiastic about James and Lily’s offers to watch her so that she and Harry could enjoy a pub night or house party with their mates. Parenthood changed both Ginny and Harry’s lives, to be sure, but it wasn’t parenthood that made Ginny a bit more reclusive. It was the breakup.
Harry’s known this for quite a while. And judging from his parents’ shared knowing glances, they do, too.
The real question is: what can be done about it, given that life has only become more complicated in the intervening years?