They Targeted My Husband, The Chosen One. They Weren't Prepared For His Wife.

The roar of the Weasley clan at full volume was a physical force, a wave of sound that vibrated through the mismatched chairs and warped floorboards of the Burrow’s kitchen. It was a chaotic symphony of shouted arguments over Quidditch statistics, shrieking laughter from a flock of grandchildren, and Molly Weasley’s futile attempts to orchestrate the serving of a roast large enough to feed a small army. And at the center of it all, Harry felt a profound sense of peace.

He leaned back in his chair, a half-empty glass of wine in his hand, and simply watched. James Sirius, his eldest, was locked in a heated debate with Ron about the Chudley Cannons’ abysmal season, his gestures wide and dramatic, a perfect echo of his mother. Across the table, Albus was listening quietly to Hermione, his brow furrowed in concentration as she explained a complex bit of magical theory, while little Lily Luna sat squarely in Arthur’s lap, charming him into feeding her extra roasted potatoes.

It was everything. This loud, sprawling, messy, loving family was the foundation of his world, the bedrock beneath the demanding pressures of the Auror Office and the lingering shadows of his past. He could sit here, anonymous in the beautiful pandemonium, and just be Harry. Not the Chosen One, not the Head Auror. Just Harry.

His eyes scanned the long, crowded table until they found her.

Ginny was laughing, her head thrown back as George recounted a story about a new Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes product that had gone spectacularly wrong. The warm light from the enchanted candles danced in her fiery red hair, and the simple cotton shirt she wore did little to hide the lean, hard muscle of her Chaser’s arms and shoulders. She felt his gaze, as she always did. Her laughter subsided, and her brown eyes, so full of fire and life, met his from across the chaos.

The noise of the room faded to a dull hum. In that single, shared glance, an entire conversation passed between them. He saw the fierce love she held for this life they’d built, the unyielding strength that had carried them through war and its aftermath, and beneath it all, the woman he still explored every night, the heat that was reserved only for him. Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile that wasn’t for the table, but for him alone. It was a promise, a secret held between them in a room full of people they loved. It spoke of the quiet hours to come, after the children were asleep and the wards of Grimmauld Place sealed them away from the world, when his hands would trace the lines of her body and her breath would ghost across his skin.

He felt a familiar pull low in his stomach, a deep and steady desire that had not waned in all their years together. He gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod, his own private answer to the question in her eyes.

A sudden shriek from Lily, who had managed to smear gravy all over George’s robes, shattered the moment. Ginny’s attention snapped back to the table, her Mum-voice cutting through the din with practiced ease. The world rushed back in, loud and vibrant and wonderfully, perfectly normal. Harry took a slow sip of his wine, the warmth spreading through his chest, savoring the feeling of utter contentment. For now, this was enough.

The smell of wet grass, sweat, and broomstick polish was the scent of Ginny’s real home. The Holyhead Harpies’ training pitch was where she felt most herself, a blur of green and gold, her body a finely tuned instrument responding to the wind and the Bludgers and the thrill of the chase. She landed hard after a two-hour session of drills, her muscles aching in the satisfying way that spoke of hard work.

“Package for you, Potter,” called a groundskeeper, holding up a small, elegantly wrapped box. “Came by owl post. Looks like another admirer.”

Ginny grinned, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her glove. It wasn’t uncommon. As one of the league’s star Chasers, she received a steady stream of fan mail, from children’s drawings to enchanted chocolates. She took the package into the locker room, her teammate Nia joining her.

“Another box of sweets to make you slow for Saturday’s match?” Nia teased, leaning against the lockers.

“Let’s hope not,” Ginny said, pulling the silk ribbon. The box was made of a dark, polished wood, intricately carved with what looked like snitches. It was beautiful, far too elaborate for a typical fan gift. She lifted the lid.

There was no sound, no flash of light, just a faint, cold puff of air, like a breath held too long. For a second, nothing happened. Then her Firebolt Supreme, propped against her locker, leaped into the air with a violent shudder. It bucked and spun like a wild thing, its handle slamming against the metal lockers with enough force to dent them.

Ginny reacted on instinct, her wand in her hand before she’d fully registered the danger. But Nia was faster. “Protego!” she yelled. A shimmering shield erupted between them and the possessed broom just as it lunged, its handle aimed straight for Ginny’s chest. The broomstick hit the magical barrier with a sickening crack, splintering the tip, before clattering to the stone floor, twitching.

The locker room was silent for a beat, the other players frozen. Ginny’s heart hammered against her ribs, the adrenaline making her hands shake.

It felt like only a minute passed before the sharp crack of Apparition sounded just outside. The door swung open and Harry was there. He wasn’t her Harry. His face was a pale, hard mask, his green eyes sweeping the room with a cold, analytical light that made her shiver. He bypassed her completely, his gaze locking on the broken broom and the ornate box on the bench.

“Don’t touch it,” he commanded, his voice low and sharp. It was the voice of the Head Auror, a tone that demanded immediate obedience. He knelt, his own wand out, tracing patterns in the air above the box. The air shimmered with the residue of dark magic. “Minor malevolence curse. Tethered to the nearest personal object. Designed to cause an accident, not kill.”

He spoke to the room, but his focus was entirely on the evidence. He was methodical, detached, his movements precise. Ginny watched him, a cold knot forming in her stomach. This was the Harry from the war, the boy who had walked into the forest to die. The intensity emanating from him was a tangible thing, a wall of grim purpose that shut her out completely. He was protecting them, she knew, but seeing that haunted look in his eyes again, directed at a threat against her, felt like a shadow falling over the sunlit peace they had fought so hard to build.

The silence in their bedroom at Grimmauld Place was heavier than any noise at the Burrow had been. Harry stood at the tall window, his back to the room, staring out into the dark square. He hadn't changed out of his Auror robes, and the rigid set of his shoulders was a barrier she knew all too well.

Ginny came to stand behind him, the scent of her soap and shampoo a stark contrast to the stale air of worry that clung to him. She placed a hand on his back, feeling the hard muscle bunched beneath the thick fabric. He didn't move, didn't acknowledge her touch.

"Harry," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "Talk to me."

"It's being dealt with," he said, his voice flat, directed at the windowpane. "The curse-breakers are analyzing the signature on the box. It was sophisticated, but not untraceable."

"That's the Head Auror talking," she said, her fingers pressing harder into his back. "I want to talk to my husband."

He finally turned, but his eyes were still distant, his expression guarded. "Ginny, there's nothing more to say right now. I'll handle it."

"You'll handle it?" A hot spike of anger shot through her, sharp and familiar. "Is that what this is? Me, sitting at home with the children while you go off and 'handle it'? Someone tried to hurt me today, Harry. Not some abstract threat to the wizarding world. Me. Don't you dare try to manage me like I'm one of your junior Aurors."

"I'm trying to protect you!" His voice cracked, the first fissure in his carefully constructed wall.

"By shutting me out? By looking at me like I'm already a ghost? I saw your face at the training ground. That's the same look you had when you were hunting Horcruxes. We are past that. I am not a liability you have to shield. We promised we would face things together."

She stepped closer, invading his space, forcing him to really see her. She jabbed a finger into the solid wall of his chest. "I am your partner in this. In all of it. Not just in raising our children or posing for the Prophet. In this, too. I will not be benched, Harry."

His hands came up and clamped around her upper arms, his grip tight, desperate. His green eyes were blazing now, the cold detachment burned away by raw fear. "They aimed for you, Ginny. It was meant for you."

"I know," she said, her own anger softening as she saw the terror he was trying so hard to contain. "So let me fight with you. Don't fight to protect me. Fight beside me."

A ragged breath escaped him, a sound of defeat. He pulled her against him in a sudden, rough motion that knocked the air from her lungs. It wasn't a gentle embrace; it was an anchor in a storm. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his arms wrapping around her so tightly she could feel the frantic beat of his heart against her own. His body was rigid with tension, a coiled spring of fear and responsibility. She could feel the tremor that ran through him as he held her, his knuckles pressing into her back. This was his confession—not of facts or clues, but of the paralyzing fear he refused to speak aloud. She wrapped her own arms around his neck, holding him just as tightly, her anger melting into a fierce, protective ache.