Chapter 3:
The Road Goes On


The Road goes ever on and on,
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say."


“It’s alright,” Ginny said, softly.

Molly Weasley stood at the door of the Burrow. Her apron – a thick wrap of yellow wool, into which green, embroidered ducklings were expertly woven – bore a smudge of flour, and her eyes were not moist, as many other mothers’ might have been. But her soft, almost gnarled hands clasped each other for a moment, and it was clear she was worried about her youngest daughter.

- Which daughter would, under any other set of circumstances, have made a show of exasperation, at such a worry.

As it was, Ginny did not. Of course, she was exasperated that her mother was worried over this turn of events - Ginny had been away before, not once, but plenty of times; and knew fully well how to take care of herself - but she also understood how her mother felt, now.

“Don’t take anything she says to heart,” Molly said firmly, as she reached out to embrace her only daughter, hear the latter’s heartbeat against her chest. “You know your Great-Aunt Muriel – it is a challenge for her to find good, even in the best of things. Remember -" Her eyes acquired that glossy quality, which they did, whenever she reminisced.

"Remember when Fred bought his first toy broomstick? She told him it reminded him of leftovers dinner and rotten chicken -" It had been mouldy, and very badly-painted, Molly had to admit that to herself, even now. God knew what had possessed Fred to want to buy it! "-- and he bewitched her new radio to sing 'I’m an ugly, yellow duckling, and I won't be a pretty swan' -” A spin on the then-popular children's song, I'm an ugly, yellow duckling, but I will be a pretty swan "- in tune with her favourite song, every time she switched it on.”

“Mum!” Ginny said, but the corners of her mouth twitched, and she might have laughed if she did not have to put forward the little word of opposition, that she did have. “You can't be upset that Muriel said that, about Fred' broomstick! You know it was pathetic – it had a handle that was bigger than its other end, and he couldn’t even climb it!”

“Ah well, he didn’t know much about broomsticks then,” Molly said vaguely, as she let go of her daughter. “You take good care of yourself, and write to me everyday – I do love the scent of a fresh, long letter when I read it by the fireplace on a cold, winter’s day – not that it’s winter yet. Not completely.”

Ginny sighed. “I’ll be fine, mum,” she said, firmly. “You know I will be. -- I always am.”

“I hope so,” Molly Weasley said with a little sigh, but then Aunt Muriel had arrived on the scene, and her voice was at its sharpest.

“Come along, Ginevra,” the Great-Aunt said, loudly. “I couldn’t believe it, you know, when your mother told me you would accompany me – but then, it’s clear this house has done you no good, and your cheeks could do with a little bit of fat. Of course, the red hair can’t be helped –” this was said with a critical look at Ginny’s red sheet of hair, whose tinge was brighter than the usual Weasley’s – “But we will have to make do with that. Hopefully, some man will take a fancy to the strange, flame-like colour and -- what’s wrong with your dress?”

Ginny blinked – Muriel’s usual banter, she had expected, but the sudden question put her off guard. “Nothing,” she said defensively, pulling her woolen wrap tighter around herself. She had honestly thought its turquoise was lovely – what wrong could Muriel find with this?

“It’s blue,” Muriel said scathingly. “You don’t wear blue on a winter’s day, Ginevra – not with your hair, at least. Red,” she threw her arms up, a sign of despair. “The hair can’t be helped, so it would be better to highlight it - make it look worthwhile - with a flair of a red petticoat or something, than to strive to fade its colour underneath layers of sickly blue – I can’t believe your mother told me you had fashion sense, Ginevra!”

“It is not blue,” Ginny said, through gritted teeth. She was used to Aunt Muriel’s crude remarks but, sometimes, she could not help but snap at the old woman. “It’s called turquoise, lady!”

“Same thing,” Muriel said loftily and, with these words, she grabbed Ginny by the arm. The redhead hesitated, shrinking back from the soft, old – and yet so steel-like! – touch on impulse, but Molly gave her a very “don’t mess this up now, Gin” look and, with a bit of reluctance, Ginny let Muriel steer her towards her expensively-dressed self.

“We shall apparate, now,” Muriel twittered. “Say your goodbyes to your mother, Ginevra – you met your father before he left for office this morning, didn’t you? I hope you have no plans to bid him another farewell.”

“I don’t, Aunt Muriel,” Ginny said with a sigh. She wondered why she was doing this, letting herself be pulled into a world that would have been fascinating had it not been for Muriel’s company – the only one who could make that world possible for her! – but a world that might not be any good now, because she knew Muriel would not let her be, in peace.

Would she?

“Very well,” Aunt Muriel declared. “Let us leave now, Ginevra – you dawdle too much on unimportant chatter.” Her grip on Ginny’s arm tightened and, before the redhead could even raise her eyes to glance at her mother, she had been squeezed into compactness, part-suffocation that was as unpleasant, now, as it had been the first time she had experienced it.

- Clearly, side-long apparition seemed ten times worse than usual, when your companion was the hag that Great-Aunt Muriel could be.

*

[] Reference:

+ "The Road goes ever on and on -" - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Road Goes Ever On from The Fellowship of the Ring.