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The Healing Properties of a Sandwich 

Give what you have.  To someone else it may be better 

than you dare to think.  --Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
  
     It's a never-ending source of amazement to me to 
discover how many great and startling revelations 
havebeen made over food. 

Take... okay, I can't think of any examples.  I've never 
been that into muggle history and doubt I could come up 
with any examples 

that would make any sense to you.  But rest assured that 
Galileo, Shakespeare, Watson and Crick all ate food.  It 
stands to reason 

that at least some of their revelations must have come to 
them whilst eating. 

     Mine came to me over a ham sandwich. 

     I was alone for the day, Mum out shopping, Dad and 
Percy at work, Fred and George who knows where, Ron 
and Harry down at 

the lake.  I hadn't been invited to go along anywhere but 
the shopping.  Needless to say, I stayed home. 

     So there I was, all feeling sorry for myself as I sat in the 
kitchen and slapped thick pieces of ham between slices of 
my mum's 

homemade bread.  Waiting for Harry to come back.  Not 
that his presence would actually change anything.  The 
most likely thing 

would be that I would rush out of the room blushing as 
soon as he stepped foot through the door. 

     But a girl can dream, can't she? 

     I could see it perfectly.  I'd be sitting in the kitchen, with 
a long, luxuriant evening dress on (no matter it was the 
middle of the 

afternoon- this was a dream and anything was possible.) 
and my hair beautifully done.  I'd just have put the finishing 
touches on my 

ham sandwich when he'd walk in, dirty and rugged after 
spending the day at the lake, and he'd see me and be 
immediately 

entranced with my beauty.  I'd smile coyly at him and offer 
him one of the ham sandwiches, which of course he'd 
take.  And then 

he'd eat it!  And the ham sandwich would be so good that 
he immediately would come out of the reserve that's been 
keeping him 

from telling me his true feelings about me for all these 
years. 

     'Ginny,' he'd say, grabbing me around the waist and 
kissing me passionately, 'I love you! I have always loved 
you!' 

     It, of course, was one heck of a ham sandwich. 

     So anyway, there I was, smiling over my ham sandwich 
when I heard the kitchen door bang open and closed.  
Hastily I stood 

up, leaned one arm alluringly against my chair as I had 
seen some muggle actresses do, and tried to put on my 
most winning smile. 

     "Are you sick, Ginny?  You look like you're having a 
seizure or something." 

     Nothing can quench a romantic mood quite as well as a 
big brother can. 

     "I'm fine," I answered, sulking down into my chair and 
pouting into my sandwich. 

     "Hey, you made us lunch!" Ron smiled, taking the 
sandwich- the ham sandwich that was supposed to the 
instrument to win 

Harry's heart- and eating it. 

     Of course, all it's charms were quite lost on Ron. 

     "Yeah," I said faintly, pulling out two more slices of 
bread to make another sandwich for Harry.  The ham was 
gone but there was 

still peanut butter left.  Dumb, dumb Ron.  Why couldn't 
Harry have thrown him into the lake?  He would have 
gotten a ham 

sandwich out of the deal, at least. 

     "Thanks," muttered Harry, taking the sandwich I held 
out to him.  Poor, poor Harry.  I had never truly believed 
that my ham 

sandwich would make him as amorous as I'd like him to 
be, but I had enough faith in my own sandwich making 
skills to hope that it 

at least might have worked as an impetus for him to strike 
up a conversation with me.  Maybe he even would have let 
me listen as 

he spilled out his troubles- Harry has lots of troubles and 
I'm a good listener. 

     But it was absurd to even entertain the hope that 
peanut butter, no matter how well prepared, could ever 
have even that effect. 

     "Are you going back to the lake after lunch?" 

     Ron glanced at Harry, who shrugged.  Harry shrugged 
a lot lately, and spoke very little.  That's why he was so in 
need of a good 

ham sandwich or two.  Or three.  Or seven. 

     "I reckon I need to write that essay for McGonagall," 
Ron answered finally, "Maybe we could ring Hermione up 
and see if she's 

available to help us with it.  I don't really understand it too 
well." 

     Ron was always coming up with excuses to ring 
Hermione up.  The last time had been a week ago, when 
he woke up in the 

middle of the night and suddenly decided he needed a 
Potions tutorial.  Mum was quite convinced he was 
delirous.  All I can say is 

that love does very odd things to people. 

     But of course I wouldn't know anything about that.  
"Another sandwich, Harry?" 

     "No," he muttered, "I think I'll just sit outside for awhile.  
Go ahead and call Hermione up if you want her, Ron." 

     "I don't want her," Ron flushed bright red, "I only 
thought- er- how about another sandwich, Ginny?" 

     "Only if you don't mind peanut butter," I sighed. 

     He didn't.  Peanut butter sandwich in hand, he bent a 
hasty retreat upstairs.  Harry went out to sit on the front 
porch.  I was left 

in the kitchen with my ham sandwich. 

    It wasn't exactly the way I'd imagined the afternoon 
would turn out. 

    With a sigh, I headed into the living room, settled into an 
old chair and watched Harry through the window.  His head 
was resting 

on his knees and he looked rather depressed. 

     That's when the revelation came to me. 

     Sandwiches don't solve everything- not even ham 
sandwiches. 

     The thought blew me quite out of the water. 

     You see, for years and years, ever since the Earl of 
Sandwich decided that he wanted to eat lunch and play 
cards at the same 

time, people have been eating sandwiches.  And in all 
those years, the sandwiches never stopped anything bad 
from happening. 

They ate sandwiches during the World Wars and 
Grindelwald's reign and Voldemort's first rising.  Harry's 
parents ate sandwiches 

and Cedric Diggory ate sandwiches. 

     You could pour your whole heart into making a perfect 
sandwich for somebody.  And even if your dumb big 
brother doesn't eat it, 

that doesn't mean that the sandwich will ensure that 
person happiness.  Just because you want somebody to 
be happy and full and 

content doesn't mean they will be. 

     The fact of the matter is, there are something's that 
even sandwiches can't cure. 

     In which case, the solution is pumpkin juice. 

     I finished my ham sandwich and rushed into the 
kitchen, poured Harry a tall glass and headed outside, 
heart beating wildly in 

my chest.  This would work!  Just wait and see! 

     So there he was, sitting morosely on the porch.  I snuck 
up silently beside him and for a moment just stood there, 
pumpkin juice 

in hand, trying to gather my courage.  Mind you, it was 
loads harder than it sounds.  Perhaps he would be mad at 
me for 

interrupting him?  But I had to stick it out, even if it meant 
that I had to clear my throat twice before he even noticed I 
was there. 

When he did finally notice me, it startled me so much that I 
quite lost my grip on the glass.  Pumpkin juice splattered 
all over the 

porch, soaking the both of us. 

     So much for the healing properties of pumpkin juice. 

     "Er- sorry," I said, feeling my face go quite red. 

     Just then something remarkable happened.  For the 
first time that summer, Harry Potter smiled. 

     Perhaps there's more to pumpkin juice than we give it 
credit for. 

     "It's okay," he said, "Parvati once told me she bathes in 
the stuff to make her skin soft.  I guess you get a first hand 
experiment. 

D'you have a rag?" 

     What a guy! 

     I grabbed two rags from the mending basket mum 
keeps out on the porch and silently we set to work cleaning 
up the mess. 

     You'd never think to look at it that pumpkin juice could 
be so darn sticky.  It stuck everywhere-  to our clothes and 
the porch and 

the chairs- cleaning it up was going to take us all 
afternoon. 

     Not that I particularly minded that, of course.  We didn't 
talk much, but just being with Harry was a million times 
nicer than a 

conversation with anyone else. 

     "I think it's almost all up," said Harry finally, scrubbing at 
one last spot and pulling himself up to a crouching 
position, hands 

resting on his knees as he watched me give a chair a final 
shine. 

     "Would you like something to drink?" 

     He laughed.  A victory in itself- I hadn't heard him laugh 
all summer, and even if this particular laugh still sounded a 
bit strained 

and sad- at least it was a start, "I don't think we'd better 
risk it." 

     "Okay," I blushed, taking his rag from him and standing 
up to go inside, "Er- thanks for helping me and all." 

     "No problem," he sighed, then laughed and sighed 
again, shading his eyes to look out on the horizon, "Looks 
like there'll be a 

thunderstorm tonight." 

     "Oh?" 

     "Yeah.  I think so." 

     "That's good.  We need the rain." 

     "Uh-huh." 

     "Yep." 

     So there we were.  Just him and me and the sun 
peeking out from behind the dark storm clouds.  For the 
first time in all the 

years that I had known him, we were all alone.  Well, 
except for Ron upstairs.  And the gnomes crawling around 
in the lawn.  And 

Pig fluttering excitedly over out heads. 

     Don't look now but Pig has wings. 

     "It's started to get cold," he said finally, shivering a bit 
as he pulled his sweater over his head. 

     "Yeah," I agreed, "It is." 

     So it wasn't stimulating, intelligent conversation, but 
heck, it was conversation.  When you've lived on bread 
and water for so 

many years, you start to look forward even to sticky 
pumpkin juice. 

     We were silent for several moments more.  But it wasn't 
a bad silence.  Not at all.  Some silences have ways of 
being nicer than 

talking, and this was one of those.  Where you could just 
sit there and imagine that the other person is thinking 
about you instead 

of knowing for sure that he's not.  That his mind is still 
stuck on the weather. 

     "I guess your mother will be home soon," he broke in 
finally. 

     Or your mum. 

     Of the two, I'd rather his mind was still on the weather. 

     "Probably," I sighed, wiping my hands resignedly on the 
sticky rags and heading back towards the door.  So much 
for the 

pumpkin juice. 

     If I still had been in my daydream, Harry would have 
called me back to him right then.  He would go down on 
one knee and 

profess his undying love. 

    Or at least he would have smiled again.  I think that's 
what I really wanted to happen.  I wanted to believe that 
my very presence 

had brought him out of his melancholy.  That I'd turn to go 
inside and just as I was about to disappear indoors he'd 
suddenly call out 

my name. 

    'Yes, Harry?' I'd say, cautiously stepping back out onto 
the porch. 

    And he'd give me a small, sweet, sheepish smile, 'I-I just 
wanted to say thank-you.' 

    I'd pretend to be puzzled, 'For what?' 

    'For- for just being there, you know,' he'd say, flushing a 
becoming pink. 

    I'd flush too, 'It's nothing, Harry,' I'd say, 'We're all here 
for you.' 

    'I know,' he'd say, 'Thank-you.  This past year...' 

    'There's no need to talk about it,' I'd say comfortably.  
And there wouldn't be.  Because in that moment I'd look 
into his eyes and 

he'd look into mine and we'd understand each other 
perfectly. He'd know how very much I love him, not some 
childish crush like 

everyone says it is, but a real true love that both frightens 
me and excites me every single moment of every single 
day.  He'd know 

how much I need him, and he'd realise just how much he 
needs me. 

     There would be no need for words. 

     And then, slowly, gingerly, he'd hold out his hand to me 
and I'd take it.  He wouldn't kiss me, and I wouldn't want 
him to.  At 

least not right then.  The moment would be too profound, 
too deep to be cheapened into some tawdry romance 
novel.  He'd just hold 

my hand and I'd hold his and for that single moment, the 
world would be perfect. 

     But daydreams are a lot like ham sandwiches.  Just 
because you really want something to happen doesn't 
mean it always will. 

     My hand fell on the doorknob and I turned it slowly. 

     "Ginny?" 

     I turned back to him, breathless, "Yes, Harry?" 

     He gave me a small smile, "D'you- d'you think I could 
have that other sandwich now?" 

     I sighed and smiled, trying to hide my disappointment, 
"Yeah." 

     "Thanks, Ginny." 

     I smiled again, a real smile this time, "No problem.  It'll 
be just a moment, okay?" 

     "Okay." 

     I opened the door and went inside.  Harry went back to 
sitting on the porch, leaning against a wooden pillar.  
Maybe it was only 

my imagination, but I thought I saw the very faintest 
glimmer of a smile- 

     Time to try my luck with the peanut butter.  Who 
knows?  Maybe he'll decide he wants a glass of milk to go 
with it. 

     I'll be there to give it to him. 

  Fin