FIC: 'The Gift, or What Tuesdays Bring' [PG-13]

Written for Draco's Birthday at hd_birthdaybash

Author: tigersilver
Title: 'The Gift, or What Tuesdays Bring'
Rating: PG-13 [language]
Word Count: 3,500+/-
Warnings: None. Mostly Epilogue-compliant.
Summary: Ginny Potter receives a gift—one she didn't ever anticipate or even realize she needed—and one she learns she can allow herself to give away.
Author's Notes: This is what came to me, and nagged at me incessantly, when I was first gleefully telling over the concepts of 'gifts' appropriate to our exalted recipients. I hope it pleases, though it's far from my usual fare (in this fandom). Beta'd by the lovely lonerofthepack.

Dedicated to mums, honorary 'aunts' and grandmums everywhere and, with lashings of luvelles and huggles, to the ever-wonderful ineffably_roma.

Tuesday Morning Café Club began when little James Potter was three. Ginny Potter nèe Weasley had no clue a simple, ordinary coffee klatch would become so many important things to her, in the end: a pick-me-up, a place to chat with actual 'adults', a way to meet friends and make new ones, a blessed relief from the demands of motherhood and wifedom.

A lifeline, when she was drowning. Woven of cunt hairs and lacquered locks, loose threads and hasty mendings on the fly, 'here's a pin, dear' and 'go on, tell me what he said, then.'

In the beginning, it was just her and Hermione, Angelina and Padma, meeting at the little shop right 'round the corner from the Wee Winsome Wizards & Witches Day Care Centre, for the hit-and-miss span of two hours every Tuesday morning. Then the list expanded, as each of them dragged along other mothers through their children's activities and sporting meets. Astoria Greengrass Malfoy started dropping by, along with Pansy Nott. Lavender Finnegan and Susan Goldstein. Hannah Abbott, a proud single mother, relied on the Tuesday Morning Club to keep her aloft through all stress that arose from the process of her son Colin being diagnosed as a Squib. She was their first 'project', but not their last, this sisterhood of cream buns and 'oh, bollocks, I'm laaaate to fetch the kiddies!'

Molly Weasley began attending when James, Rose and the older ones moved onto the Felton Montessori School's Wizarding branch. She claimed she barely ever saw her only daughter and her daughters-in-law unless it was with the children and she'd appreciate a chance to chat (and share her wealth of knowledge, uninterrupted by sticky hands and piping little voices chanting joke incantations). Narcissa Malfoy sauntered in coolly at Astoria's insistence and, after some fits and starts, the elder ladies became fast friends, especially when Andromeda Tonks joined them, Teddy attending Felton, as well.

The group was social; it was loose and free-flowing, as mothers came and went due to the vagaries of their busy lives and family work schedules. It provided advice, a friendly ear, resources that mothers everywhere needed and an open forum that discounted previous boundaries like so much fingerpaint. The children—the precious, precious children—were the touchstone they, every Woman Jill of them, had in common, and with those bright eyes and questing minds there was reaffirmed the hope for a society that would never, ever birth another Tom Riddle.

They bought each other's school fundraisers; they shared each other's clothes.

"Gin, what's wrong?" Hermione asked her, one day shortly after Albus started Wee Wiz's. "You're looking peaky these days. Another on the way already?"

"It's Harry." Ginny started, not denying she was up the duff again, and then stopped, brushing her finger through the drips of tea that stained her saucer. She crumbled a biscuit and regarded the magical finger-paint under her raggedy nails.

"What's up with Harry? I heard he was really frantic these days, what with all the new assignments and his promotion."

"Oh, he is, and that's not the problem," Ginny sighed. "I mean, I expected it. It's good. It's just." And again, she stopped, for this was difficult to admit.

"It's just?" Hermione prompted her. Ginny looked up and regarded the woman who was as close to her as any sister. How to put this without it sounding awkward and whingeing?

"Did Ron ever—did Ron ever, well, look at anyone else, Hermione? You know—just look, not do anything."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked quickly, leaning her neatly braided head in, so that they almost bumped foreheads over the remains of the tea tray. "What's wrong with Harry, Gin?"

"Nothing!" Ginny exclaimed. "Nothing's wrong with him! It's just that he…"

"Yes?"

"Well, the spark's gone, Hermione. I mean, it's as if we're mates or something. We were always friends, but we were in love, too, and…and I don't feel like that's necessarily there, not anymore. It's like some part of him's gone missing."

"Oh, Ginny!" The ready sympathy in her sister-in-law's voice was nearly Ginny's undoing. She sighed, blinking hard, and took a sip of tea to cover the quiver in her lower lip.

"Maybe I should expect that too, you know? Two children under the age of six and then we've been trying for a little girl at every opportunity—it's likely just that, right? The strain?"

"Of course it is, Ginny!" Hermione was all soft eyes and had her hand out instantly, patting Ginny's restless one where it fumbled with her serviette. "Of course it is. All these silly men go through these phases; you know that. Just proves they're not dead, I suppose. Only just realizing they're fathers and husbands at last, stupid things. It's natural; like an early mid-life crises, really. Let Harry get that new broom he's been eyeing for ages and likely it'll clear right up," Hermione offered. "He'll be right as rain in no time."

"You think?" Ginny felt pathetically glad for the advice, and the underlying suggestion that this wasn't something life-altering and permanent. They'd been in love, she and Harry, and she clung to that, in a way, just as she'd clung to the image of her childhood Hero all through the evils of Voldemort. "I hope so…" she sighed, shrugging. "I just keep thinking about poor Astoria and what happened with Malfoy. You know that nearly wrecked her, whether it was an arranged marriage or not. She still took it that hard."

"But it's not like that, Gin," Hermione said quickly. "Harry would never—I mean, he'd not feel like he had to hide things from you. He does love you; trust me, I know that. I'm dead sure of it."

Ginny stared her straight in the eyes, and took in the sympathy, the empathy, the lack of judgment. Hermione never asked for details unless Ginny offered; she never pried into the marriage of her sister-in-law and her best mate from childhood, and it was one of the many reasons they were confidantes and honorary siblings—closer than any blood-bound family members could ever be, really.

"I hope so, Hermione," Ginny answered, sighing again, and straightening the cups and such out of habit. "I really, really do."

Astoria Malfoy's marriage had publically disintegrated when her husband had been found in flagrante delicto with another Wizard, at a rather seedy Muggle hotel in Birmingham, entirely by accident. It had been a nine day's wonder for the Press and then had blown over, quickly superseded by concerns over some other more far-reaching political scandal involving the Muggle PM. Malfoy was a promising Under Secretary and his upcoming and deserved promotion to Director of DOM had been scuttled because of the scandal, but he was still a very able administrator and a brilliant man with a potion and wandless spellwork, and that couldn't be denied. He was duly reprimanded and the expected divorce proceeded apace, but he didn't lose his post.

And he was, as Astoria admitted later over a round of shortbread biscuits and Oolong, not a monster, either. Just a man who'd been forced by expectations to be what he was not. No one's fault, really, in the end, and at least they had little Scorpius, who, as it turned out, was Albus's firm friend from Wee Wiz's. Ah, the irony, she and Tory grinned, and both took great pleasure in informing their spouses (ex and still) of that development.

Lily was born, and for a time, Ginny convinced herself that all was grand with her world. She'd no time nor energy left over, really, to even think it was not.

Homosexuality had never been a crime in the Wizarding world, unlike the Muggle. Some people did disapprove, whether for religious reasons or personal hang-ups, who could tell or cared to, but society on the whole accepted it as easily as they accepted the weather: it happened. Magic was too precious a gift to waste effort on useless bewailing of any potential swellings of the ranks lost to same-sex Bondings, and, besides, there'd been modern charms and potions aplenty since the early 1940's to handle that, not to mention willing surrogate Witches and magic-donor Wizards, all available to alleviate the one, overriding fear. It was fact, it was, and only Voldemort's hatred of anything not fitting precisely into his rigid and increasingly mad vision of perfection had endangered it. Draco Malfoy had been a victim of precisely that perfection: circumstances beyond his control. The only son and scion of an ancient lineage, he'd had to produce an heir (and preferably a spare) to replace himself, and due to his father's zealous following of the Dark Lord's dogma, that had had to be accomplished through marriage to a suitable Witch with suitable bloodlines and fortune. Thus Astoria Greengrass. Thus, little Scorp.

Harry Potter was a different kettle of fish; always had been. His personal sexuality had been way far down the metaphorical totem pole all through his maturation. Literally faced with possibility of not surviving his teenage years, he'd not thought about it much, or tried not to, and when Ginny offered her unstinting affection and friendship—and above all, her family—he jumped at it, assuming it was what he wanted and needed. Thus James, Albus and little Lily, their darling baby girl.

Ginny, emerging from a welter of diapers and a rigid feeding schedule, for Lily was colicky, found herself more and more drawn to Astoria Malfoy. There was something in particular they had in common, other than motherhood, and a small part of Ginny grimly—resentfully—suspected she knew what it was.

"Is it alright, Tory? To talk about? I don't want to upset you," Ginny said, peering at her friend anxiously as she poured another round of tea. Astoria laughed and waved an elegantly manicured hand; she was perfectly turned out as usual, just like Narcissa; all Malfoy women were.

"No, no!" she replied, taking up the saucer and cup and reaching for the sugar bowl to add another lump. Tory had a sweet tooth like nobody's business. Gin had often quietly wondered if she'd a hollow leg or if there was a private gym tucked away in that huge mansion she still shared with her ex-husband. "It's been years now, darling. Just ask Pans—I've been over it for absolute ages. Really."

"Well…" Still Ginny hesitated. This was not where she wanted to be, really, nor what she wanted to discuss. Much better to be chatting about Albus's utter fascination with the Malfoy collection of Quidditch memorabilia ('They could have museum, Mum!' he enthused, literally bouncing on his toes. 'It's amazing, all the Snitches and the uniforms and even one of the World Cups from when Scorp's great-great-great-great-I forget how many-grandfather's team won! And Scorp says I can come and look any time I want!')

"If you're sure," she added, shrugging. "I only—I wanted—to ask how—if you ever had a feeling—any indication, at all."

Astoria settled herself with a largish wedge of blueberry crumb cake and stirred her tea. She took a sip of her ice water, and finally narrowed her eyes at Ginny, all humour wiped clean from her lovely face. "Darling, if it's like that, then you're not to blame yourself. He can't help it, any more than poor Draco could. It's only life, dear. It's not anything you've done or not done, remember that."

Ginny blinked hard and dropped her teaspoon with a clatter. Her cup was knocked out of the way by Tory's reaching hands.

"Are you sure, Tory?" she demanded, sucking in a sobbing breath and batting her lashes furiously. One sentence only, and a death knell to her dreams. "Are you dead certain? Because I can't bear to believe—to believe—Harry loves me!" she moaned—shouted, her voice rising above the chattery murmur. "And—and he's not a cheater! He couldn't do it even if he wanted; 'Must not tell lies!'"

"Ginevra Potter, your husband loves you to death, and he loves your children," Tory had Ginny's trembling fingers in a firm grip, anchoring her. Behind her, Gin felt a warm bulk and a tiny part of her imagined it was her Harry , magically come to reassure her that everything was alright; that this was just a figment of her overwrought imagination—that 'true love' existed, just as the books said. As Mum said—Mum lied.

"But if he's not meant for this—for this kind of relationship, Ginny, your kind; if it's not in him, for some reason that has nothing to do with you, darling, there's nothing to be done but face up to it," Astoria went on, her pale blue eyes calm and reassuring, steady on Ginny's wild, tear-filled gaze. "And above all, you cannot—simply can not—blame yourself. It's not your fault, love. It's no one's fault."

"And we're here, baby girl." That was her Mum at her back, with Narcissa right behind her, and Hermione and Pans and Hannah, all gathered 'round, elbows jostling to get a reassuring hand on her person; a coven twenty strong and ever-growing, and every one of them would watch her irreplaceable children at the drop of a hat; would run her errands if she were ill; would visit her in the hospital if she were sick; would send her funny Owls when she was in the dumps; would come clean her messy house when life was bloody on the verge of impossible. Every single woman there would share a bottle of Elf wine after some arduous bargain shopping or round up a sitter last minute just to go see a Muggle 'chick flick' and swoon over a Muggle film star; every single one would spare her percentage-off coupons for necessaries if they came across them and wouldn't hesitate to firmly correct the manners of her little evil darlings when it was required, as honorary 'aunts' and 'grandmothers'.

"We're here for you, Ginny love," her Mum said, no lie this. "Always, always here when you need us."

"And for Harry," Hermione added, her chin firm.

"For all of you, darling Ginny," Tory affirmed, "no matter what," and continued reaching across the table to gather Ginny tight into her French perfume-scented and somehow incredibly comforting embrace, tea things spilling and crashing unheeded everywhere across the tiny table and onto the tiled floor; Pansy and Padma and Aunt Andy somehow magically gathered at Ginny's feet and knees, and the café's long-time server Maggie Witherspoon discreetly turning the 'Open' sign over and pulling out the stash of Firewhiskey.

It was the hardest conversation they'd ever had. She climbed into his lap to have it, just as she'd always done, there on their ratty old green sofa that Harry had refused to give up after Auror School, and they bumped noses and snogged whilst sniveling like small children and hugged hard and desperately when she ran out of the proper words, the ones she'd rehearsed over and over in front of her sympathetic mirror. Harry actually even cried, which he never, ever did, his face buried in her neck whilst he snorted and mumbled, dripping messily, and it nearly shattered Ginny's already battered heart to another million pieces. They made love after, long and slow and sweet, and Ginny realized halfway through it'd not likely happen again. It was done, this part of their lives, and it was more than time to move on.

Six months after, almost to the day, a harried Ginny ran into Dean Thomas at an art museum, one of her continual attempts to instill cultural values in her small tribe of heathens. They arranged to have coffee sometime soon and exchanged Floo addresses.

She related this to the Tuesday Morning Club and avoided meeting any number of speculative eyes with great panache.

Two months and two weeks after that, she told her husband of nearly fifteen years she was seeing his old Gryffindor dorm mate, with an eye towards something more permanent. He looked horribly betrayed and hurt, at first, his green eyes widening with pained shock. He'd not protested her decision of nearly a year before—well, he had, vehemently, but in the end, he'd grudgingly admitted she was likely right, and that he didn't know, really, and that it was best, perhaps, to be roommates for a while and see what happened next.

She blinked at him, her hands tight on a dishcloth, and wasn't sure what to say next. She'd needs too, and Tory and Hermione had said that was perfectly understandable, and she couldn't be blamed for it. And Harry would—eventually—admit that, stubborn git that he was.

And then he swallowed hard, squared his shoulders, and cocked his head in that way he had that always made Ginny's heart flip-flop, even after years and years, and grinned at her, wide and bright. And Ginny knew it really would all be alright, in the end.

Months and months after that, when she and Dean were an established couple and she and Harry were in the midst of working out the terms of an amicable, no-fuss, non-media event divorce, Harry Flooed her from the Ministry and hesitantly asked to meet him for lunch at the Leaky. He hadn't stopped home the previous night—they still lived together, having no good reason not to and a great many reasons (with names like Lily and Al) to continue their arrangement—and Ginny, intimately occupied with whipping up twenty-four cupcakes last minute for Lily's Wee Wiz's class outing in between bouts of helping James out with his Charms revision, had assumed it was the current 'hot' Auror case that had claimed his attention.

"I…have something to say to you, Gin," he mumbled, looking everywhere but her, his fingers so tight on his pint, she quite thought he'd shatter the inch-thick glass. "You might hate me, though."

"Harry James Potter," she smiled, eyes alight, "love of my life, I'll never, ever hate you. Now, what did you do? Tell me this very minute or I'll hex you silly, I swear!"

When Hannah and Susan—the latter fresh from a messy separation from Tony Goldstein—decided to formalize their relationship, the Tuesday Morning Café Club was there, with bells on and scads of confetti. When Narcissa admitted she was having a bit of trouble with her increasing consumption of pre-prandial 'drinkies', the Tuesday Morning Club was there, with experts on tap, professional contacts and tonnes of support.

When Padma was horridly—though, thank Merlin, not fatally—Splinched during an international Apparation to India to visit her extended family there, the Tuesday Club rallied like the D.A. in its prime.

When Tory Malfoy related her ex-husband's halting request for romantic advice, the Tuesday Morning Club was there, all accounted for, howling their hilarity—and all-encompassing affection—into their low-fat scones and chipped teacups.

Dear old Ronnikins insisted on keeping up the front of Malfoy hating, and Ginny was tempted to smack him a hard one whilst they were all standing about on Platform 9 ¾'s, if only for his gittish taunting, never mind he wasn't really serious, and it was all a game he and Draco had played for ages—some sort of male thing they did, the arses—it was still a bad example for the children. She disapproved on principle, as did Hermione, who promptly pinched him.

The children, sensibly enough, were more concerned about what would happen when they got to Hogwarts. And poor Lily was in turns wistful and envious, with only a few years to go before she, too, would receive her Letter. She moved up to Felton and was doing splendidly in all her subjects, the darling brat.

Draco's stiff little nod to Harry disguised Ginny's knowing wink at Tory, and Hermione smiled and smiled helplessly through her maternal tears—Hugo was off, along with Al and Scorp, and the days of Wee Whiz's were well ended, at last.

But the Tuesday Morning Club would never end. It was a gift, Ginny thought, that she'd not ever thought to be presented, and its existence allowed her to give something away that had never been truly entirely hers from the start: the care and feeding of Harry's happiness.

That it was Draco Malfoy receiving the honour and the duty—the one person on Earth that Ginny admitted might possibly love Harry even more deeply than she did—was somehow immensely fitting. Through all her anger, her resentment, her feelings of loss and abandonment, and her bewilderment and personal anguish, her love for Harry had never once flagged—and he, of all people, deserved no less from the person he'd chosen, eyes wide open this time, for this next stage of their lives.

Finite