Rating: TEEN
Disclaimer: I'm not Jo Rowling, nor am I a representative of Bloomsbury, Scholastic, Raincoast, Warner Brothers, etc. I don't own the characters from the Potterverse. I merely love to borrow them. Don't sue me. I don't make money off of these ventures.
Author's Note: This story takes place following the events of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. You will find spoilers from that book within the story. If you haven't read the book, I advise doing so prior to reading this fic. You have been warned.
***
Golden Days
…There was still one last golden day of peace left to enjoy…
--Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, U.S. Edition, p. 652.
ONE
The hustle and bustle going on two floors below heralded the arrival of a new day at the Burrow. And it was not just any day, Ginny recalled. No, today was the day the finishing touches would be done on the alterations to her gaudy gold bridesmaid’s gown. The gown couldn’t be altered enough, in Ginny’s estimation; when she wore it, she felt like a castoff from the Fountain of Magical Brethren. Today too was the day when Phl -- no Fleur (Ginny had been making a conscious effort to stop referring to her future sister-in-law in such a slimy manner) -- when Fleur would hopefully make a final decision regarding what type of cake was to be served this Saturday following the wedding ceremony. Mrs. Weasley had spent the two days prior trying to satisfy her future daughter-in-law’s finicky tastes, with little luck.
The first cake Mrs. Weasley produced had a scrumptious layer of creamy icing, which Fleur proclaimed was too ‘eavy, while the next sample was far too reech. Through gritted teeth, Mrs. Weasley told Fleur that she’d keep trying to find “zee perfect cake,” but secretly she was envisioning Fleur’s flawless features drenched in cake batter. Ginny had laughed when her mum confided this to her, in spite of the fact that she had promised acceptance of the fussy Fleur into the Weasley clan.
As Ginny thought of the wedding preparations going on that day, all the time at the back of her mind danced the fact that today was also the day Harry Potter was set to leave Privet Drive and arrive at the Burrow. She hadn’t seen him since they’d parted ways at King’s Cross station in June, and that day she’d barely managed a “See you later, Harry” without also running at him full-steam to throw her arms around his neck before he was off with his aunt and uncle.
But she hadn’t.
She’d agreed to the ending of their relationship, and such spirited goodbyes were in direct violation of such an agreement. This she knew, and this she accepted.
At least her mind accepted it, at any rate. Her heart was an entirely different matter.
Therefore, her mind was in perfect form for when Harry appeared on her doorstep later that morning; it was her heart that she need to tell, “Get a grip!”
“Ginny, dear!”
Mrs. Weasley’s voice cut into Ginny’s musings and floated up the staircase with as much lilt as a banshee cry. Ginny groaned, knowing her mum was requesting her presence to serve as a mediator between herself and Fleur -- who, from the sound of it, was already creating quite a trial for Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen.
“…that ees too much eggs, I theenk.”
“Bill likes eggs, my dear.” Mrs. Weasley said with a forced smile. Ginny could tell she was trying very hard.
“I like eggs,” said Ginny before planting a kiss on her mother’s flushed cheek. “G’morning Mum…g’morning Fleur.”
“Bonjour Ginny,” purred Fleur. “Too much eggs is not ‘ealthy, I theenk.”
Ginny shrugged and took two heaping spoonfuls of scrambled eggs from the skillet on the stovetop. For good measure, she plopped three fat sausages onto her plate as well.
She settled herself at the table with a glass of pumpkin juice and a piece of warm toast and glanced at the Daily Prophet. She heard Fleur make a clucking noise with her tongue, and in a very poor stage whisper say, “Poor Ginny. It ees ‘orrible that she ees turning to food in ‘er time of sadness.”
“Yes, Fleur,” Mrs. Weasley hissed back. “Losing Dumbledore was a terrible tragedy, but I don’t think--”
“Oh yes,” replied Fleur in a husky whisper. “The ‘eadmaster…very sad. But I meant ‘Arry Potter. Ronald tells me they--”
“Shush!” Mrs. Weasley spluttered hastily, rifling through a stack of recipe cards and thrusting several of them under Fleur’s nose. “Look and see if you can find one without an excess of eggs!”
A stoke of luck in the form of a furry violet ball appeared on the kitchen counter as Fleur began to peruse the recipe cards, sending her retreating into the next room and muttering something that sounded like “thees place ees a zoo,” which was punctuated by a shrill hoot from Pigwidgeon, who’d just appeared on the kitchen windowsill in time for the blessed scene.
Ginny felt momentarily guilty for having garnered pleasure at Fleur’s shock when she found Arnold the Pygmy Puff emerging from behind a basket of fruit, but promptly forgot about such feelings of shame when she recalled Fleur’s comments.
As she finished up her toast and folded up the Daily Prophet, she saw Ron teetering down the staircase, yawning and stretching wildly. He eyed the paper and said, “Anyone we know--”
“No, Ron,” Ginny answered curtly, scraping her uneaten eggs into the bin.
“Good,” replied Ron, eyeing a plate of breakfast pastries lovingly.
“Hurry up with breakfast, Ron,” piped Mrs. Weasley, scurrying about the kitchen. “I’ve got things to do in here when you lot have finished, and Harry’ll be here--”
Mrs. Weasley stopped herself short. The word “Harry” had somehow become taboo in Ginny’s presence and it was beginning to really annoy her.
“It’s just…I‘ve got things to do, so hurry up!” snapped Mrs. Weasley, as if were all Ron’s fault she’d let slip the forbidden name. Ginny rightly thought her family might start referring to him as “The Chosen One,” just to keep from saying “Harry.”
Ginny gave her mum’s retreating back an maddened glare as Mrs. Weasley bustled from the kitchen. Ron cleared his throat and stabbed a sausage with his fork. Ginny could feel it coming. Ron had been trying to impart his wisdom about the situation on her since they got back from Hogwarts. Ginny had been avoiding him at every turn.
“So,” Ron began, staring at his plate of food.
“So, I’ve got things to do myself,” finished Ginny, scooping Arnold up and leaving the kitchen swiftly.
As she trudged back up the staircase, she heard Ron’s wounded voice shouting, “I love our little talks!”
Golden Days - H/G - contains HBP spoilers - Updated 7/25
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bistyboo1974
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Golden Days - H/G - contains HBP spoilers - Updated 7/25
Last edited by bistyboo1974 on Mon Jul 25, 2005 3:52 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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BehrHunter
- Fan Fic Follower
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WOW.. I get to be the first to rewiew! Well, we talked over at the book Nook so you know i love Harry/Ginny! This is great! You blended comical and sadness and Phlegm perfectly! My favorite line;
andAs she trudged back up the staircase, she heard Ron’s wounded voice shouting, “I love our little talks!”
Are we going to see Harry's "Monster" in this storie?She’d agreed to the ending of their relationship, and such spirited goodbyes were in direct violation of such an agreement. This she knew, and this she accepted.
At least her mind accepted it, at any rate. Her heart was an entirely different matter.
Therefore, her mind was in perfect form for when Harry appeared on her doorstep later that morning; it was her heart that she need to tell, “Get a grip!”
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bistyboo1974
- Supreme Geek Queen
- Posts: 872
- Joined: Wed Jul 17, 2002 3:29 pm
TWO
After Mrs. Weasley had finished her third rejected wedding cake of the week and abandoned the kitchen for fifteen minutes of repose in her bedroom, and Ginny had sat for an hour reading through a box of undelivered letters, she’d come downstairs to the living room to peruse the latest edition of The Quibbler and to ignore her brother. Every time Ron attempted to speak, Ginny would cut him off with a, “Please hush, I’m trying to work this puzzle,” or a “I’d like to have full concentration on this article about dysfunctional clans of Acromantula who don’t like eating their own family members, as opposed to the typical type who enjoy it thoroughly.”
He was so frustrated with her by the time a knock sounded at the front door that he shot like a cannonball to answer it. Ginny’s stomach knotted, thinking that it might be Harry, come for his stay a little earlier than expected.
“Who is it?” called Ron through the door.
“Let an old lady in,“ cawed a voice from the other side. “It’s your Auntie Muriel!”
Ron mouthed the words “Auntie Muriel” wordlessly, a green tinge suddenly coloring his complexion. A grin curled the sides of Ginny’s mouth.
“Let her in, you git!” said Ginny, amusement unmistakable in her tone.
“What’s the password, then?” grumbled Ron, clearly hoping she didn’t remember.
“How could I forget?” the voice said on the other side of the door. “Celestina Sings the Blues…your father stopped by to tell me this morning!”
Ron groaned. He slowly opened the door and was promptly attacked by the ancient-looking woman who entered the house, her wispy, frail arms pulling him into a hug and her shriveled mouth planting a firm kiss on his red cheek. Ginny snorted a laugh, but was soon given her due.
“Accio Ginevra!“ bleated the sinewy old woman.
Ginny felt her feet drag the floor as the summoning charm pulled her into the thin, outstretched arms of her Auntie Muriel. She knocked heads with Ron as Auntie Muriel pecked another kiss on each of their flushed cheeks. Ron let out a whimper of disgust. Ginny snickered.
“All right, children? Hmm?” She rumpled both Ginny’s and Ron’s hair and looked toward the kitchen. “I’d bite your arm off for a piping hot cuppa, hmm?”
“Auntie Muriel,” Ron said, flattening his disheveled hair. “I thought you weren’t coming ‘til Friday…”
“It’s not Friday?” said Auntie Muriel, looking at her bare wrist with a contorted expression. “But it says here on my watch--”
“You’re not wearing a watch, Auntie--”
“Belt up, Ron,” Ginny grumbled in an undertone. “And get a kettle going for Auntie’s tea.”
Under his breath, Ron murmured invective directed at his elderly aunt all the way into the kitchen. Ginny was thankful Auntie Muriel was hard of hearing.
“So, where is the groom-to-be?” said Muriel, taking a scarf printed with fuchsia hibiscus off of her head to reveal a shock of poorly dyed red hair. Ginny made a mental note to do a proper color change spell for her before the wedding. “Where’s our Percy?”
Ginny raised an eyebrow. At 93 years old, Auntie Muriel lived on her own (not counting her thirty-two cats and a tank full of flobberworms), but she still was quite senile. She was always doing odd things like sending Christmas cards in June or Apparating into Diagon Alley for a day of shopping dressed in her dead husband’s frock coat.
“Percy’s not here, Auntie,” Ginny said, taking her aunt by the hand and leading her into the kitchen. “And he’s not getting married.”
“He’s not! Then why am I here?” Muriel said, looking thoroughly put out. “I’m leaving at once if there’s not to be a wedding…honestly, when I speak to your father about this--” She screwed her face up, making her look quite prunish, and Ginny knew in about five seconds, she’d Disapparate.
“There is to be a wedding!” Ginny shouted, trying to keep her aunt from disappearing. “Bill’s wedding!”
“Oh, dear me!” said Muriel, blushing scarlet. “How embarrassing. Of course, dear Bill.” She settled herself at the kitchen table, shaking her head.
“Here’s your tea, Auntie Muriel,” Ron said, plopping a tea cup in front of the old woman.
“Thank you, Ronald,” she replied. She opened up her large purple handbag and removed a sugar bowl.
“We have sugar, Auntie,” said Ginny, looking baffled at the pink-and-green fairy-patterned sugar bowl her aunt had just extricated from her bag.
“Oh, no,” Muriel said, waving a hand at her niece. “I didn’t want to impose, so I brought my own, hmm?”
“Hmm,” grumbled Ron. “I’ll be in the garden, waiting for Harry,” he said as he left the kitchen.
“So where’s this girl Percy’s--”
“Bill!”
“Oh, blimey, there I go again! Bill, then. Where‘s this girl Bill’s marrying?”
Right on cue, Fleur wandered into the kitchen.
“Ginny, your muzzer wants to pin you eento zee dress now,” she announced. Then she noticed the eccentric-looking woman seated at the table and her jaw sagged a bit.
Auntie Muriel cast an appraising eye on Fleur, then smiled widely.
“This is Fleur, Auntie Muriel,” Ginny said. Fleur looked too dazed to introduce herself. “Bill’s fiancée.”
“Chuffed to meet you, dearie!” crooned Muriel. “You sure are a pretty thing, hmm? And what kind of name is Flaar?”
“Fleur,” Ginny corrected. “It’s French. It means flower.” She looked at Fleur to try to gauge a response, and gathered shock from the expression on her face.
“Well, you’re as pretty as a flower, hmm? Come let Auntie Muriel give you a smack!”
Ginny swallowed the laughter dying to emerge from within.
“A smack?” bellowed Fleur, finally regaining her voice.
“She means a kiss, Fleur,” said Ginny, a definite note of amusement in her voice that Fleur had obviously detected. She cast an annoyed look towards Ginny, but then it evaporated into a look of relief.
“Certainly,” Fleur said to Muriel, and she inclined her porcelain-fine cheek towards the old woman.
***
“Hold still, dear!” snapped Mrs. Weasley, pulling a pin out of the pincushion she was wearing on her wrist and attempting to secure some of the silky gold material around her daughter’s waist.
“Oww!” shrieked Ginny, jumping off of the chair her mum had asked her to stand on and gingerly rubbing the sore spot where Mrs. Weasley’d pricked her. “Honestly, Mum! That hurt!”
“Don’t be a baby, Ginny,” her mother scolded.
“I’m not being a baby,” Ginny said. “Look, I’m actually bleeding!” She craned her neck around to see crimson spots flourishing on golden fabric in the area where the pin had punctured her moments ago. “Right there! Blood.”
“Well..” said Mrs. Weasley, sounding apologetic. She flicked her wand at the tiny wound and sighed. “I’m not the best at sewing, dear…you know that. I thought trying this the Muggle way would be better, because you know how my stitching charms always turn out."
Ginny had a fleeting thought of Ron’s dress robes from his fourth year. Their mum had meant well, but her improvements to the already repugnant robes had been horrible.
“Just let me have a look at the incantation for clothing alterations and I’ll give it a go,” Ginny said, feeling exhausted from having been an unwilling participant of acupuncture for the past half hour. That and she was desperate to get out of her gaudy gold robes and into some comfortable Muggle attire. Harry was due to arrive very shortly and she didn’t want him seeing her looking as if she’d been touched by King Midas.
Mrs. Weasley conceded and handed Ginny a thick lavender book entitled, Gilderoy Lockhart’s Complete Household Guide to Stitchery. Ginny flipped to the table of contents and found the word “alterations” under chapter seven’s heading. She read the instructions quickly and set the book down.
“My wand, please,” Ginny said to her mother. Mrs. Weasley handed it to her and took a step back. “Here goes nothing…Novus vieo!"
The silky fabric began to ripple, as if Ginny had stepped into a warm summer breeze. She could feel where it had been loose a moment before, and was now becoming fitted as the spell took effect. The robes were constricting around her waist, her ribcage, at her bustline -- at the moment she felt comfortable, but she thought if the spell continued any longer, the material might cut off her circulation.
“Finite incantatem!” she said quickly.
Mrs. Weasley evaluated Ginny’s spellwork, walking round and round her several times before finally saying, “Not bad, not bad. A little snug in some places, though, don’t you think?” She raised an eyebrow and glared directly at her daughter’s chest.
“MUM!” bellowed Ginny, horrified. “The robes are fitted, they’re not too tight. Honestly, would you rather I looked like I was wearing a potato sack?”
“Perhaps,” bristled Mrs. Weasley, her arms folded.
“Well, that makes only one of us, and since I’m the only one who can perform the charm--”
“You’ll want to watch that cheek, young lady,” warned Mrs. Weasley.
But before she could admonish Ginny any further, Ron’s voice interrupted. He was crowing something from the garden. Something that sounded very much like, “Harry is here!”
After Mrs. Weasley had finished her third rejected wedding cake of the week and abandoned the kitchen for fifteen minutes of repose in her bedroom, and Ginny had sat for an hour reading through a box of undelivered letters, she’d come downstairs to the living room to peruse the latest edition of The Quibbler and to ignore her brother. Every time Ron attempted to speak, Ginny would cut him off with a, “Please hush, I’m trying to work this puzzle,” or a “I’d like to have full concentration on this article about dysfunctional clans of Acromantula who don’t like eating their own family members, as opposed to the typical type who enjoy it thoroughly.”
He was so frustrated with her by the time a knock sounded at the front door that he shot like a cannonball to answer it. Ginny’s stomach knotted, thinking that it might be Harry, come for his stay a little earlier than expected.
“Who is it?” called Ron through the door.
“Let an old lady in,“ cawed a voice from the other side. “It’s your Auntie Muriel!”
Ron mouthed the words “Auntie Muriel” wordlessly, a green tinge suddenly coloring his complexion. A grin curled the sides of Ginny’s mouth.
“Let her in, you git!” said Ginny, amusement unmistakable in her tone.
“What’s the password, then?” grumbled Ron, clearly hoping she didn’t remember.
“How could I forget?” the voice said on the other side of the door. “Celestina Sings the Blues…your father stopped by to tell me this morning!”
Ron groaned. He slowly opened the door and was promptly attacked by the ancient-looking woman who entered the house, her wispy, frail arms pulling him into a hug and her shriveled mouth planting a firm kiss on his red cheek. Ginny snorted a laugh, but was soon given her due.
“Accio Ginevra!“ bleated the sinewy old woman.
Ginny felt her feet drag the floor as the summoning charm pulled her into the thin, outstretched arms of her Auntie Muriel. She knocked heads with Ron as Auntie Muriel pecked another kiss on each of their flushed cheeks. Ron let out a whimper of disgust. Ginny snickered.
“All right, children? Hmm?” She rumpled both Ginny’s and Ron’s hair and looked toward the kitchen. “I’d bite your arm off for a piping hot cuppa, hmm?”
“Auntie Muriel,” Ron said, flattening his disheveled hair. “I thought you weren’t coming ‘til Friday…”
“It’s not Friday?” said Auntie Muriel, looking at her bare wrist with a contorted expression. “But it says here on my watch--”
“You’re not wearing a watch, Auntie--”
“Belt up, Ron,” Ginny grumbled in an undertone. “And get a kettle going for Auntie’s tea.”
Under his breath, Ron murmured invective directed at his elderly aunt all the way into the kitchen. Ginny was thankful Auntie Muriel was hard of hearing.
“So, where is the groom-to-be?” said Muriel, taking a scarf printed with fuchsia hibiscus off of her head to reveal a shock of poorly dyed red hair. Ginny made a mental note to do a proper color change spell for her before the wedding. “Where’s our Percy?”
Ginny raised an eyebrow. At 93 years old, Auntie Muriel lived on her own (not counting her thirty-two cats and a tank full of flobberworms), but she still was quite senile. She was always doing odd things like sending Christmas cards in June or Apparating into Diagon Alley for a day of shopping dressed in her dead husband’s frock coat.
“Percy’s not here, Auntie,” Ginny said, taking her aunt by the hand and leading her into the kitchen. “And he’s not getting married.”
“He’s not! Then why am I here?” Muriel said, looking thoroughly put out. “I’m leaving at once if there’s not to be a wedding…honestly, when I speak to your father about this--” She screwed her face up, making her look quite prunish, and Ginny knew in about five seconds, she’d Disapparate.
“There is to be a wedding!” Ginny shouted, trying to keep her aunt from disappearing. “Bill’s wedding!”
“Oh, dear me!” said Muriel, blushing scarlet. “How embarrassing. Of course, dear Bill.” She settled herself at the kitchen table, shaking her head.
“Here’s your tea, Auntie Muriel,” Ron said, plopping a tea cup in front of the old woman.
“Thank you, Ronald,” she replied. She opened up her large purple handbag and removed a sugar bowl.
“We have sugar, Auntie,” said Ginny, looking baffled at the pink-and-green fairy-patterned sugar bowl her aunt had just extricated from her bag.
“Oh, no,” Muriel said, waving a hand at her niece. “I didn’t want to impose, so I brought my own, hmm?”
“Hmm,” grumbled Ron. “I’ll be in the garden, waiting for Harry,” he said as he left the kitchen.
“So where’s this girl Percy’s--”
“Bill!”
“Oh, blimey, there I go again! Bill, then. Where‘s this girl Bill’s marrying?”
Right on cue, Fleur wandered into the kitchen.
“Ginny, your muzzer wants to pin you eento zee dress now,” she announced. Then she noticed the eccentric-looking woman seated at the table and her jaw sagged a bit.
Auntie Muriel cast an appraising eye on Fleur, then smiled widely.
“This is Fleur, Auntie Muriel,” Ginny said. Fleur looked too dazed to introduce herself. “Bill’s fiancée.”
“Chuffed to meet you, dearie!” crooned Muriel. “You sure are a pretty thing, hmm? And what kind of name is Flaar?”
“Fleur,” Ginny corrected. “It’s French. It means flower.” She looked at Fleur to try to gauge a response, and gathered shock from the expression on her face.
“Well, you’re as pretty as a flower, hmm? Come let Auntie Muriel give you a smack!”
Ginny swallowed the laughter dying to emerge from within.
“A smack?” bellowed Fleur, finally regaining her voice.
“She means a kiss, Fleur,” said Ginny, a definite note of amusement in her voice that Fleur had obviously detected. She cast an annoyed look towards Ginny, but then it evaporated into a look of relief.
“Certainly,” Fleur said to Muriel, and she inclined her porcelain-fine cheek towards the old woman.
***
“Hold still, dear!” snapped Mrs. Weasley, pulling a pin out of the pincushion she was wearing on her wrist and attempting to secure some of the silky gold material around her daughter’s waist.
“Oww!” shrieked Ginny, jumping off of the chair her mum had asked her to stand on and gingerly rubbing the sore spot where Mrs. Weasley’d pricked her. “Honestly, Mum! That hurt!”
“Don’t be a baby, Ginny,” her mother scolded.
“I’m not being a baby,” Ginny said. “Look, I’m actually bleeding!” She craned her neck around to see crimson spots flourishing on golden fabric in the area where the pin had punctured her moments ago. “Right there! Blood.”
“Well..” said Mrs. Weasley, sounding apologetic. She flicked her wand at the tiny wound and sighed. “I’m not the best at sewing, dear…you know that. I thought trying this the Muggle way would be better, because you know how my stitching charms always turn out."
Ginny had a fleeting thought of Ron’s dress robes from his fourth year. Their mum had meant well, but her improvements to the already repugnant robes had been horrible.
“Just let me have a look at the incantation for clothing alterations and I’ll give it a go,” Ginny said, feeling exhausted from having been an unwilling participant of acupuncture for the past half hour. That and she was desperate to get out of her gaudy gold robes and into some comfortable Muggle attire. Harry was due to arrive very shortly and she didn’t want him seeing her looking as if she’d been touched by King Midas.
Mrs. Weasley conceded and handed Ginny a thick lavender book entitled, Gilderoy Lockhart’s Complete Household Guide to Stitchery. Ginny flipped to the table of contents and found the word “alterations” under chapter seven’s heading. She read the instructions quickly and set the book down.
“My wand, please,” Ginny said to her mother. Mrs. Weasley handed it to her and took a step back. “Here goes nothing…Novus vieo!"
The silky fabric began to ripple, as if Ginny had stepped into a warm summer breeze. She could feel where it had been loose a moment before, and was now becoming fitted as the spell took effect. The robes were constricting around her waist, her ribcage, at her bustline -- at the moment she felt comfortable, but she thought if the spell continued any longer, the material might cut off her circulation.
“Finite incantatem!” she said quickly.
Mrs. Weasley evaluated Ginny’s spellwork, walking round and round her several times before finally saying, “Not bad, not bad. A little snug in some places, though, don’t you think?” She raised an eyebrow and glared directly at her daughter’s chest.
“MUM!” bellowed Ginny, horrified. “The robes are fitted, they’re not too tight. Honestly, would you rather I looked like I was wearing a potato sack?”
“Perhaps,” bristled Mrs. Weasley, her arms folded.
“Well, that makes only one of us, and since I’m the only one who can perform the charm--”
“You’ll want to watch that cheek, young lady,” warned Mrs. Weasley.
But before she could admonish Ginny any further, Ron’s voice interrupted. He was crowing something from the garden. Something that sounded very much like, “Harry is here!”