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take it all (away)
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Tonight, after she gets home - after a smiling kiss hoisted up to the corner of his mouth, tippy toes and tight hugs to the kids - after a warm shower and a change of clothes, they'll order in.
It's the end of summer, that year. Leaves wilting in the trees; the wireless runs repetitive adverts for Hallowe'en decorations and this morning, when he headed into work, Harry noticed an irreversible sort of chill in the air; when Ginny comes down later, her hair wet over her shoulders, she'll be wearing a jumper. Lily and Al will soon hound her with questions, about the World Cup and about Namibia or about something else, and James will hurry into the kitchen too, just as she will pour herself a large glass of wine. He will be loud and lanky and almost-teenage. 'Where's food?' he'll ask, then.
And: 'Well, hello, Ronald ,' she will laugh. Say.
Chinese, Indian or Italian - the kids will have their pick. It's a long-standing tradition in the Potter household since the dreadful winter of '09, when James had the flu and Lily was sniffling and Harry spent five days battling family germs on his own until Ginny came back from a work trip to save them all. He tiredly sunk into the couch next to her and: 'You should have stayed there,' he observed. Sighed like a headache. 'You're gonna catch it too.'
She shrugged. Smiled. Laid her head on his shoulder. He didn't have the heart to push her away. 'Let's order in, yeah?'
Harry will phone in. Everybody's favourites memorised like the faded lines at the back of his hand. There will be noise - James arguing with Al over the TV remote, Lily talking to herself, playing with her animal figurines and toy soldiers. She's built a whole ranch with Playmobils in her bedroom: fake horses and fake cowboys and fake fences - her magic makes it all move of its own accord - it's a bit of a nightmare.
The kind of nightmare Harry doesn't mind having.
They'll eat pizza on the couch or nems from clear plastic boxes scattered across the kitchen table, and the kids will fill Ginny in on everything she missed. Lily won't stop chatting and 'Mum' this and 'Mum' that, and James will say: 'Oh, will you shut up for once?' One of them - or both of them - will automatically throw back: 'James, don't talk to your sister like that.'
There will be second servings, thirds. Harry will smile and laugh, and feel like a weight lifted off his chest the moment she opened the front door just as easily as he will later clear the plates, with a simple wave of his wand. Ginny will go up to unpack, and he'll try to convince the kids to go to bed - with moderate success. James will try to convince him he needs a new broom, with no chance of success. Al will wandlessly tie his brother's shoelaces together before quietly retreating to his bedroom, a loud tumble ensuing with his victim falling flat on his face at the top of the staircase. He will deny having done any magic the next morning.
'Prove it,' he'll say.
Harry will want to smile (like a headache, too).
And, you know, he wonders - sure - but he's not jealous. Being jealous of his own kids would be fucking weird and, anyway, he's over it, now. He's even stopped being bitter. Ginny hasn't stopped being angry but there's something almost comforting about it, about her anger and her capacity for unrelenting outrage when they sent Petunia a card last Christmas and she wrote back: Please, take me off your mailing list.
'Cunt,' she said.
He winced or cringed, he's not sure. 'Yup.'
He's not jealous - not bitter - but he does wonder. He wonders and thinks of James. So, so tiny, in Ginny's belly. The first time he felt a kick against the tips of his fingers and held his breath - like, forever. And Ginny, who asked why he couldn't sleep, that night, watched him puff cigarette smoke out the window. 'I'm nervous,' he said.
'I'm the one giving birth ,' she laughed.
'What kind of father do you think I'll be?'
He thinks of James and he thinks of Tom, sometimes. His palm against the skin of her stomach was sweaty - like warm, summer nights.
And, he looks at the kids and he wonders. What it would have been like. Growing up like that.
With them , you know?
He thinks of James again. Of James and of Albus and of Lily. He wonders if they know. That he's happy. That they're happy. That he's not jealous or bitter or angry. And, that love tastes like food. Like strawberries on Ginny's lips, and spring rolls, and pizzas and curries.