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Seventh Son Of A Seventh Son.

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"What if I were a guy?" you ask Harry two years into your marriage, holding a baby on your hip while Harry pokes at the stove until breakfast appears.

Harry just looks confused and shrugs. Sometimes you love how dense he is, how focused he gets on what's important and how everything else falls away. But right now, this is an important thing you need him to think about. "Then you'd be a guy, I guess," Harry says.

"Would we still be married?" you press.

Harry slides eggs onto your plate. "Sure, why wouldn't we be?" he asks and kisses your cheek. He takes the baby and makes a flourish at breakfast. He likes making too much, so there's stuff left over. You hate when things are left over. It's one of the sources of tension in your marriage. You grew up poor and loved. Harry grew up poor and abused. And now you both have money, but it's hit you two different ways. "Would the Harpies be okay with it, though?"

So maybe Harry is on your wavelength and truly doesn't care. "I could ask them."

Harry nods and starts offering toast to the baby. "Well, let me know if we need to move so you'd be closer to another team."



Some of the guys you knew in school, they knew early, but you don't. It's not like you mind. You were a tomboy, and somewhere along the way you grew up to be a man instead of a woman. There's magical solutions to it, but you're not sure if you're interested in those. It's not like there isn't time. Wizards live pretty long when there isn't a Dark Lord to kill them off, and you're pretty experienced with Dark Lords by this point in your life.

You're not sure how the Harpies will take it, but the career of a professional Quidditch player is pretty short, so it's not like you can't wait.

Things that can't wait: you tell Harry. You tell your mother. You tell your father. You tell your brothers.

You like your name mostly. Harry's been calling you 'Gin' for short for a while now and you decide to just roll with that for now. There's time to change it later if you want.

You do tell the Harpies that and they switch you to being Gin Weasley officially. You like the sound of that. Most of the people who don't know you think it's a nickname, a compromise so they don't just call you Ginger, and you don't correct them. You liked being Ginny. You didn't like being Ginevra. Being Gin is a good fit between them.



The babies call you 'mama' and they call Harry 'papa'. It's not like you mind that much, but, well, you do mind a little. When the oldest is five, you and Harry take them out for ice cream and, starting when you come back, they start calling you 'da'.

And that's better. That's much better. You like how that fits, you like being 'da'. It fits much better, as so many things seem to be these days. You don't think you realized how much didn't fit until it suddenly does fit and makes you wonder how you managed it before it did. And you managed it well, but you don't have to anymore, and you're glad for it. It's a relief and you take it and hold it tight, keeping it close, enjoying every moment of it.



You stop playing Quidditch and start writing about it instead. Your byline is Gin Weasley for the first paper without any need for explanation or complaint. No one calls you Ginevra anymore. You understand your mother calling you Ginny every so often, but even with that, she's pretty good about remembering not to. You didn't mind being Ginny when you were, but it's been a few years now, and it's feeling less and less like your name and more like an unfortunate childhood nickname. You were Ginny Weasley when you were a kid. Now you're an adult and you're just Gin to everyone.

It fits really well, you decide. All the time behind you now makes you see clearly how things didn't fit before, how you shoved yourself into things, how you tried to make them fit. You wonder if this, too, is something to blame on The Diary, how maybe after what happened there, you were too scared of your own head to trust it, how you were too scared of yourself to trust yourself. Maybe it took you longer because of that. But maybe it took you exactly as long as it should have.

It's not a race, after all.

You're twenty-three when you tell Harry. You're thirty-five when you go to a healer. You're forty-one when someone forgets the team you played for was a women's team.

And maybe that's slower than other people, but it's really not a race. It never was.



"Up, Grandda," demands the two year old and you pick her up and spin her around and she tugs at your hair, going grey now. "Grandda! Grandda! Down, Grandda!"

You put young Molly down and Harry comes up from behind you and wraps his arm around your waist. "I think it's time for ice cream, Molly. What do you think, Gin?"

"For sure," you agree, and the baby claps her hands in glee.

"Grandda! Grandpa! Ice cream!" the baby chants and keeps it up all the way to Diagon Alley.