Work Text:
To: ReallyCorking
From: Your Secret Santa
Title: such a beautiful blank (but smooth it)
Author: pocketfullof (website)
Word Count: 12,500
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Summary: Ginny picks a rose, and her world spins out of control.
Rating: NC-17
Author's Notes: This fic was very loosely inspired by the tale of Tam Lin, somewhat more inspired by the film Groundhog Day, and named for a line in Sylvia Plath's poem Amnesiac. Thank you so so much to my betas! Happy Holidays, ReallyCorking!!!! It was such an honor to be able to write for you.
Archiving: Originally posted here.
She's walking through the woods when she spots it. The October air is crisp, and a canopy of overhanging branches studded with burnished gold and ruby red leaves shades the mossy ground beneath her. Practice ended later than usual, not that it matters much tonight. Harry and Ron are doing their first field assignment with the Auror trainees, and likely won't be back until tomorrow, and Hermione's spending the weekend with her parents in Spain. Which means, for once, Ginny will have the evening to herself. She has a date with a bubble bath, a bottle of wine and a stack of trashy magazines.
She can't explain the compulsion to venture into the patch of forest after practice, but she's been with the team for nearly a month now, and has always been a little enchanted by the woods. Now seems as good a time as any to explore.
The sun has just started to set, and the air sort of shimmers when she enters the woods; it's all creamy yellow light, fresh and sharp, on the edges of the place. But inside it's darker, shaded. Which is why the rose stands out to her, haloed in white light. One perfect rose, white like freshly fallen snow and untouched by the sizzle of autumn color around it, growing from a large, brambly bush. Tucking her wand into her practice robes, Ginny bends to examine it. It's breathtaking, which - yes, she quite likes nature, but Ginny's never really been taken by flowers or anything else so...girly. And regardless, it's merely a rose. Nothing magical or special, not really.
Except that there is. She can feel it. And the compulsion to pick it is ridiculous. She glances furtively around, feeling inexplicably guilty, before she plucks the rose from its spot.
It starts as a gentle roll, like a wind that rustles the leaves, making them crackle. Then the ground shakes. The sound is like thunder.
Ginny shivers.
i
It's not her alarm that wakes her up, but her stupid, imbecilic brother, who's thundering around in the kitchen as if he's mistaken the pots and pans for a set of drums. Ginny groans, looks at the clock, and groans louder. For one thing, it's Saturday, which should mean a day of lying in until at least half-nine, before maybe doing a whole lot of nothing. For another thing, it's decidedly not half-nine, it's not even half-seven, and Ginny's never really been one for waking up earlier than she needs to.
"Ron," Ginny growls, not bothering to throw her dressing gown on over the oversized Harpies T-shirt she went to bed in, before shoving open her bedroom door and all but stomping her way down the hall. The flat isn't much, of course, one bathroom, two bedrooms, a small square living area and an even smaller galley-style kitchen. Between Ginny's wages as the rookie on the Quidditch team, and Ron's earnings from the shop, the two can handle their rent, still have money to spend down at the pub, and not have to buy second hand robes. It's enough. It's theirs. Usually, Ginny's thrilled with it.
Usually.
She comes to a stop.
"And then maybe we can come back here," Ron's saying, as his head emerges from a lower cabinet. He's got a large skillet in one hand, and on the counter Ginny can see a bowlful of brown eggs and a thick slab of bacon. "Catch the Falcons' game on the wireless."
"Ron," Ginny grunts. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" With her hands on her hips, Ginny knows - because her darling brothers often inform her -she does a remarkably good impression of her mother.
Ron's freckled face whips toward her, a scowl already in place. The scent of coffee floods her nose, and there's a bark of familiar laughter behind her. Ginny feels a smile stretch her cheeks - despite the early hour and the fact that she must have bed head - and turns towards the sound.
"Harry," she chirps, the anger melting away. "I thought you weren't coming 'round 'til this afternoon -."
He's wearing a Weasley Jumper, green, with a large 'H' embossed on it (Ginny has his twelve-year-old version of the same sweater folded inside her dresser), and denim trousers. He eyes her for a moment, surprise evident on his face. "Oh, well -" he hedges, casting a fearful look at Ron.
Ginny laughs, moving towards him. "I know I must look hideous, but that's no reason to be afraid of your girlfriend." She tips on her toes and presses a smacking kiss to his chin. His skin is chilled from the early morning air.
"Are you mad?" Ron asks from behind her, slamming the pot down with excessive force. Ginny and Harry both cringe. "Are you still asleep?"
She turns away from Harry to aim a glare at Ron, her arm still flung around Harry's waist. "What are you on about? I've told you a million times, just because you have a problem with me and Harry touching around you doesn't mean we're going to stop, and anyway - "
Beside her, Harry stiffens. You'd think after two plus years of dating, he'd have got used to her kissing him in front of Ron, but -
Ron blinks at her owlishly. Finally, he says, "You're not Harry's girlfriend, you twit."
Ginny lets out a sharp bite of laughter, ignoring the way her stomach drops, and rolls her eyes towards the ceiling. "Of course I -" she begins.
But just then, Harry steps away from her, letting out a bit of nervous laughter. Ginny glances sharply at him, at his pink-stained cheeks and his straight, white teeth. "Um, Ginny," he says, scratching at the back of his neck.
Ginny huffs, loudly. "Quit taking the piss, you two. It's too early for that, and I will hex you."
Harry's face doesn't clear, and Ron looks torn between laying a hand against her forehead to feel her temperature and laughing hysterically. The latter wins out, and for a moment, Ginny laughs with him. But the tension sweeping across her shoulders isn't relieved.
"Funny, Ginny," Ron says, eyes still crinkled. "But I think you're going to give Harry flashbacks to when you were eleven, not to mention - "
"Oh, ha, ha Ron." Harry's taken another step away from her, and - as Ginny watches - he seems to curl in on himself, arms folding across his stomach. Ginny's stomach sinks.
Her gaze moves from Ron's half-amused face to Harry's worried one, his forehead furrowed in concern, eyes confused behind his glasses.
"What are you...?" She forces a laugh, feels her face heat. They're both just looking at her. "I think - I mean - I have to go," she finally pushes out. She's got cotton padding filling up her chest.
She dashes out of the kitchen, back down the hallway to her room. Behind her, she hears Ron mutter, "She's mad," and she's not inclined to disagree. She glances at her vanity; a dead, white rose stares morosely up at her.
It's not really happening. Even as she Apparates back to the forest along the edge of the practice field, she tells herself, over and over, that it can't possibly be happening. It had been a silly dream, her own ridiculous subconscious manifesting her fears, and even though the place is eerily familiar, she's not too worried. Actually, she's probably still dreaming.
The forest is the same. A riot of colourful leaves attached to the branches above her, swaying in the stupidly cold air; harsh white sunlight that pricks through the leaves to dot the dark, mossy ground, scattered with decaying branches and dead vegetation.
The path back to the rose bush is swept clean of debris, and it's a quick walk, not even twenty minutes, before Ginny's standing in front of it. It looks nearly the same, save for the white rose, and Ginny holds the offending flower in her hand. She stares at it, in its pathetic crushed state with dead, grey petals.
It must have been a dream.
Ginny had never experienced an earthquake, but she was positive that was what was happening now. The ground trembled, as if at any moment it would open up and swallow her whole.
Ginny tumbled down, still holding the freshly-plucked rose in her hand, and the forest changed. The puddle of light spilling on the bush grew sharper, whiter, as all around its glowing circle the forest went pitch black, darker than midnight. Ginny could feel eyes on her. She shivered again, now sprawled gracelessly on the ground, and watched in amazement as a shape appeared before her eyes. It wasn't like Apparating, where the person appeared in an instant, but rather as if the molecules were gathering around, spinning in a wind tunnel, twirling round and round and slowly coming together to reveal the most beautiful woman Ginny had ever seen.
She was impossibly tall, though Ginny would never compare her with a giant. No, there was nothing oafish about this woman. In many ways, she reminded Ginny of Fleur: pale, smooth skin, long, near-white hair, pointed chin and a wide, unsmiling mouth. Clothed in a long column of ivory silk, if the cool air affected her at all she didn't show it, while Ginny, huddled on the ground, her hair in her eyes, and the crushed rose in her grip, shivered in her Quidditch robes.
Eyes the colour of a stormy winter morning lighted on Ginny.
"You dare pick my rose, you foolish girl." Her voice sent chills down Ginny's spine.
"Your rose," Ginny echoed, staring up the stretch of woman before her. She wasn't holding a wand, Ginny realized, which meant she wasn't a witch, but then -
"Oh," Ginny squeaked. "I'm really, really sorry. You must be an elf." She let out a bit of hysterical laughter. "I was walking along and I saw this rose and it was just so beautiful. I didn't think -"
"No, it's clear that you didn't," the woman interrupted. Ginny was sure she saw her breath freeze the air around her. "I'm more than mere elf, girl, I am queen of the high elves, and that rose you plucked belongs to me."
"You can have it back," Ginny tried, holding it out. There was dirt underneath her fingernails.
"It has been soiled by your unworthy touch." She sneered down at Ginny, who felt heat sweep across her shoulders.
"I had no idea it belonged to you," Ginny began to explain, the rose still extended in her hand. "If there's anything I can do to -"
"Stand before me," she demanded, "and tell me, witch - "
Ginny huffed and scrambled to her feet.
"Do you always take that which does not belong to you?"
Feeling her eyes narrow and the tips of her ears heat, Ginny puffed out her chest and stood at her full height (not much, considering).
"It's not as if there was a sign saying 'don't pick me'," she spat. "If I had known it was yours, I wouldn't have taken it, but, as I've already tried to explain, I didn't. I am really, really sorry. If there's anything I can do to make up for it, I will, but I won't stand here and let you belittle me, you, you overgrown fairy." She stopped abruptly, suddenly out of breath, and bit hard on her lip.
For a moment, the woman coolly appraised Ginny, her ice-blue eyes sweeping across Ginny's face. Ginny jutted out her chin. She wouldn't let this woman - no, this Elfin Queen - cow her into feeling like a child.
The smile that suddenly lit the Queen's face was anything but kind, cruel and cold, like her eyes. "I see," she said. Ginny tried not to squirm beneath her gaze.
"Well, Ginevra - " Ginny gasped. " - it appears you're in need of a lesson. Perhaps losing that which is most precious to you would teach you not to take that which doesn't belong in your spoiled grasp." :
"Do you want my broom?" Ginny asked stupidly. "It's back at the pitch - "
Cold, highly amused laughter cut her off. "I don't want something you foolish mortal."
"Some..."
"Before the next new moon," she continued, talking over Ginny. "You'll have all the time in the world to win him back. But when you give up, he is mine."
"What - who? That doesn't make sense."
But already the Queen was dissipating before her eyes, as if becoming a part of the forest. The light turning yellow again, creamier, and the woods around Ginny growing brighter. "All the time in the world," her voice echoed in Ginny's head. And then she was gone.
Ginny woke up in her bed, and barely remembered the dream about the Queen and her dead, decaying rose.
"H-hello," Ginny calls. The forest is calm and quiet. Nothing but the rustling wind answers. "Listen," Ginny yells again. "I am still terribly sorry about picking your rose. And - and I see that you're, you know, very powerful, and can obviously erase memories and make my life mi...miserable. You've proved your point. If you could just tell me what to do, I promise I'll - I mean, whatever you want from me, you can - "
Ginny's fumbling voice echoes back, but everything else remains quiet. She lets the tension snaking its way through her belly overwhelm her. Still holding the broken rose, she sinks to the ground, and pulls her knees up to her chin, letting her shoulders shake.
It's at least three hours before she returns home. A Cannons calendar Ron had charmed up to the right of the Muggle refrigerator hangs orangely on the wall, each past October day already crossed off. Yesterday was a new moon, Ginny notices, and she has all the time in the world to win Harry back, which sounds vaguely ominous and makes Ginny itchy under her skin, impatient.
As if answering some silent plea, just after her shower, Ginny hears Ron and Harry moving around the flat. She slips on a dangerously low-cut shirt, aims her wand at herself to dry her hair and bites her bottom lip. She scrutinizes herself in the mirror, deciding if she should bother with make-up. Her skin looks awfully pale, and -
"That blouse is little low cut, don't you think, dearie?" the mirror's waspish voice interrupts her thoughts.
Ginny scowls at her reflection. "Shut it," she mutters, before heading out to the hall.
"Hey, you two," Ginny calls from the kitchen doorway, a flirty smile already in place.
Twin looks of worry and fright greet her. "H-hi, Ginny," Harry answers cautiously, his eyes all but popping out of his head. Her shirt is blue - Harry's favorite colour on her - and shows ample stretches of her freckled chest. She lets her smile grow wider, her eyes grow warmer. "Hi, Harry," she purrs.
"What the hell are you wearing?" Ron barks at her.
Ginny swings innocent eyes his way. "This?" She glances down at herself, at the scrap of clothing the shop three blocks over had called a mini-skirt and the ponderously high heels. "It's nothing, just something I threw on." She flashes another smile in Harry's direction. "You like it?"
Ron's scowl goes deeper. "It's practically nothing," he mumbles. "Go change," he orders. "You look like a scarlet woman."
"Don't be so old-fashioned, Ron," Ginny says around a huff.
She steps further into the kitchen. Harry backs up against the counter as Ron sniffs annoyingly. "What?" Ginny demands, narrowing her eyes at him.
Ron coughs. "How much perfume do you have on?"
Aiming another glare at him, Ginny feels her face heat. "Not any more than usual, you idiot." And, okay, maybe she used a little more than was needed, but it was Harry's favorite scent. He'd told her many times.
"Anyway," Ginny says dismissively. She does a graceful turn toward Harry, which, yes, might be more effective if she could walk in the damn shoes without tripping over her own feet, but - "what are you two up to for the evening?"
Ron eyes her. "Dunno," he says. "Why? You still think Harry's your boyfriend?"
"Oh, that?" Ginny lets out a tinkling laugh. "That was a joke. Obviously."
"Obviously," Ron parrots.
Harry lets out a nervous laugh and says, "Good one, Gin."
Ginny beams. "So, what are your plans for tonight?" she asks again.
Harry shrugs. "Prolly go down to the pub in a little bit. Get a bite to eat."
"Neat. Do you two mind if I join you?"
"In that?" Ron croaks, just as Harry says, "You're more than welcome."
Ginny grins. "Just let me get my purse."
Okay, so maybe going to the pub dressed like she was out to prove something had been a bad idea, but it certainly wasn't her fault that three separate blokes had tried to pick her up in the first twenty minutes, nor was it her fault that her overprotective Neanderthal of a brother had rushed headlong into a fist fight with the first bloke who touched her arse.
Ginny can handle herself, after all, and a surreptitiously placed hex would have been far more effective. So what if they left after their first pints and Harry decided to go spend a quiet evening at home? Ginny has plenty of time; she can do this.
It won't be so bad. She can make Harry fall in love with her, no problem. She knows everything about him already, what he likes, what he hates. How hard can it be?
She slips into bed just after the sun sinks down in a sizzle past the horizon, flicks off the lamp and rolls over. Tomorrow is a new day, after all. It can't be any worse than today.
ii
Ron again, the moron. You'd think after her fit yesterday, he would learn to keep his breakfast ministrations down before it was even eight in the morning. Not that she should really expect much from a bloke who doesn't do his washing until his girlfriend refuses to step into his bedroom, but still, a little consideration isn't too much to ask.
Ginny throws back her covers, stomps her way into the kitchen to hear Ron mutter something about the Falcons game. She stops in the doorway, hands already on her hips, ready to growl and wishing she'd brought her wand out of her bedroom. Maybe she could go back to her room, teach Ron a lesson about waking up his sister on both of her days off in a row. He deserves it, after all. She needs her rest if she's going to win Harry back, and she is certainly not letting some twelve-foot-tall blonde with pointy ears get him, that's for damn -
"Hi, Ginny," says a voice off to her left. "Did we wake you?"
Ron lays the skillet he just pulled out from the cabinet down next to another bowl of eggs. Ginny spins towards Harry, a small smile already working its way onto her face. He's wearing yet another Molly Weasley-made jumper. The green makes his eyes shine darker than usual.
"Well, Ron did anyway," Ginny says with an offended glare aimed his direction. "Two days in a row, I might add." She looks back at Harry. "Harry, I know you like my Mum's sweaters, but don't you think you could mix it up a bit? Didn't she make you one with a Horntail on it?"
There's coffee percolating on the stove. The smell makes Ginny's chest swell, and she moves to pour herself a large mug. "Anyway, did you have a good night at home last night? I really just had no idea my outfit would attract so much -" Ginny pauses at the confused look on Harry's face. "Attention," she finishes slowly. "Wait." She turns quickly to Ron, hot coffee sloshing over the side of the mug. "You were talking about the Falcons game earlier?"
There's a sinking feeling weighing her stomach down, like the time she realized they had a potions' exam that she hadn't studied for, only much, much worse.
Harry answers, "Yeah," for Ron, adding, "we were thinking about catching it on the wireless, or maybe heading to the pub for a bit, after we catch a nap."
Ginny turns slowly back to Harry, stares at him. His glasses are crooked. "And why would you need to catch a nap? Also, the Falcons played yesterday. They won by thirty points."
"Ah, no it wasn't, Ginny. It's today. Are you feeling quite right?"
"No - I mean, yes, I'm feeling fine. But no, the game was yesterday. Saturday." She points towards the Cannons calendar.
"Um, Gin," Ron slowly says from behind, as if talking to a small child. "Today is Saturday."
Ginny glances at the calendar. "No, it's - oh." Saturday is not marked off, and she is certain, absolutely certain, that she put an X there before retiring for the evening. "But -" She feels her eyebrows draw together, glances down at herself, only to see that she's clad in the same Harpies T-shirt she woke up in the day before.
She backs away from the calendar. "Ginny," Ron says. "What's wrong with you?"
"What did you two do last night?" she demands. Her hand is wet and hot from the coffee; it's probably burnt. She should really put the mug down.
Ron casts a look at Harry before answering. "We had our first night out with Kingsley. It was wicked, really. I cast two spells and Harry cast one, and even - "
"Your first night out," Ginny interrupts. "Your first night out with the Aurors."
"Uh, yeah, that's what I said."
Ginny looks at the calendar again, glances at Harry and the 'H' on his sweater, at the eggs on the counter. "But that's impossible," she mutters.
Ron approaches her cautiously, like a third year approaching one of Hagrid's mad hybrid creations. He takes the coffee out of her grasp and sets the mug on the table. "Maybe you should go back to bed. I think you might actually still be asleep."
"I'm not tired," Ginny says. "I'm fine. I just - you were just -" She looks sharply at Harry. "You're not my boyfriend, are you?"
Harry's eyes go wide behind his stupid, crooked glasses. "Ah, N-no, I'm not."
"Right," Ginny mumbles. "Didn't think so."
Ron laughs. "Ginny, you must still be dreaming."
Ginny answers with a mirthless laugh of her own. "You're right," she agrees. "I am. Still dreaming." She crosses the room, arms folded over her chest. "I'll be heading back to my room now, yeah?"
In the hallway, she hears Ron declare, "She's mad," and Ginny scowls viciously.
Ginny has always considered herself a fairly positive person. Bright, fun, perky, even. Glass half full and all that. But trying to remain positive in the face of...whatever the hell seems to be happening is proving difficult. Yet another trip to the forest, and all she has for her trouble is wind-bitten cheeks and chapped lips. She checks the calendar one last time, and it can't be explained, not even with magic, but it's clear that today is the tomorrow that never actually happened. Ginny thinks back on the Queen's words from two days ago - or yesterday, depending on whose time clock you were going by. She has all the time in the world to get her Harry to love her again, but how on earth -
Elfin magic is completely different from wizard magic, older and stronger, not bound by the same physical laws. There is no way she will be able to break it, force Harry and Ron and probably everyone else she knows to remember the world as it was, not on her own, anyway. If Hermione were here, she'd know what to do, even if she thought Ginny was completely nuts. Of course, the way things were going, Ginny 's not so certain she isn't off her rocker.
She shakes herself. She needs a shower, and a new game plan, one that possibly involves research. She's going to get her life back. No matter what.
v
Come to think of it, Ginny kind of detests her life.
Somehow, she imagined going to the pub with Ron and Harry for a few pints would be enjoyable, would make Harry start whatever process he had to go through to remember he loved her again, but sitting in the dimly lit room, getting very slowly drunk with a stinging burnt hand and a what feels like a gaping hole in her chest is possibly more than she can handle right now.
She opts for jeans and a pullover this time around, and though Harry's eyes don't pop out of his head at the sight of her, no fistfights start, not even after three hours, which feels like headway. Or, it should.
The problem is.... well, the problem is that Ginny doesn't know how to act around Harry. For the past two years she's been his girlfriend. She's been in love with him, and he with her. But in his reality, he's not in love with her. He doesn't look at her as anything more than his best friend's little sister. It's clear he likes her well enough: he smiles at her, asks questions like he's interested, seems to know all about her spot on the Quidditch team and teases her with familiarity when she orders a lemon wedge with her pint.
He's still fundamentally Harry. Still sticks his tongue between his teeth when he's concentrating, and talks with his hands when he gets excited. Still needlessly straightens his glasses and smells the same: like sandalwood and sweat. But he doesn't hold her hand, or lean over and brush the hair out from her eyes. He doesn't look at her as if he -
"You okay, Ginny? You look a little sad." She looks at Harry, at the concern in his eyes and gives a shaky smile.
She nods and blinks quickly, taking a sip from her ale. There's an ache deep in her stomach. How is it possible to miss someone who's sitting right in front of you?
iii
She's expecting it this time, what sounds like a marching band rumbling from the kitchen as pots and pans are shoved around. She doesn't need to look down to know she's sporting an oversized Harpies shirt, nor does she need to go down the hall to see Harry's dark green pullover and Ron's attempts at breakfast for the day.
For Today.
Again.
Though she knows it will be entirely useless, she can't let go of the hope that she can find the Queen and promise she's learned her lesson; she'll plant whole rows of magical white roses for her, if she'd just let Ginny have her life back. Hell, Ginny thinks she'd be willing to give up Quidditch and take up with Neville, study Herbology until her thumbs literally turn green, if Harry would remember her, really remember her.
So, yes, she knows sitting on the hard, cold forest floor with a dead rose clutched in her hand talking at the trees is futile, and possibly means she should give be given a corner room with a view next to Lockhart in St. Mungo's ward for the disturbingly insane, but she doesn't really know what else to do, and hey, it's not as if she's in a rush.
Harry and Ron are puttering around the kitchen when she arrives home. Her lips are chapped and her hair wind-blown. She's tired, and it's not a regular sort of tired, but weary, bone-deep exhaustion, like she's been running nonstop and there's no end in sight.
"Hi, Ginny," Harry says when his eyes land on her. Again, he's wearing the same pullover, dark green and hand knit, and Ginny's really starting to hate it. His hair sticks straight up in back, from the nap Ginny knows he took, though she hasn't spoken to him yet today. Not really. Not technically.
"Hello, baby sister," Ron greets happily when he sees her. "What were you up to today?"
"Ah," Ginny hedges. She knows her cheeks must be red from the cold. "Playing Quidditch," she eventually lies.
"You'd think you'd get enough of that during practice."
"Doubtful," Harry says, and Ginny just gives a mirthless laugh, says, "Yeah, you'd think I would."
"Anyway," Ron says, "we're going to the pub for some dinner. You want t'come?"
"Nah. I'm not really up to it tonight."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, Ron. Thanks though. You two have fun."
"Okay." He steps up in front of her, brushes a kiss along her forehead.
Ginny pulls back, eyes him. Harry's watching from his spot near the stove. "What was that for?"
Ron shrugs, and looks a little embarrassed, the tips of ears going pink. "You just look a little sad, is all. Just tryin' to make you feel better." He gives her a mock frown. "Don't expect it too often."
Ginny blinks back wetness and smiles at him. "I wouldn't dream of it," she promises, before lifting up and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you," she whispers. "Now you two, go," she orders, louder. "Have manly fun."
Harry gives her a small smile. Ginny watches him walk away, the slight twist of his shoulders and his slate-black hair. She sighs. What she needs to do, she decides, is get really, really drunk.
The Muggle club is crowded, smack dab in the middle of London, and music's throbbing under everything, making her teeth ache. It's all chrome and glass, with big leather couches shoved into corners. The type of place that's easy to get lost in, which is...just about perfect.
The girl behind the bar smiles prettily at Ginny when she slides onto a stool. "What can I get for you, love?"
Ginny frowns, eyes sweeping the rows of liquor behind the bar until she finally just settles on, "Something strong, please."
"One of those days, yeah?" the woman says, a knowing smile playing around her lips.
"You don't know the half of it."
"I've got the cure for that, I think." A tumbler, filled three fingers high with something clear and certainly vile finds it way in front of Ginny. She throws it back, and there's a satisfying burn in stomach. Ginny pushes the glass back. "Another, please."
Three shots in, and Ginny's feeling good and buzzed. Her lips are just this side of numb, and the music twirls through her body, moving it along.
Four shots in, and she's on the dance floor, bumping and grinding in a sea smelling of sweat and jasmine.
She's laughing when she spots him smiling at her. He's tall with narrow shoulders and dark, dark hair, and his voice, when he offers to buy her a drink, is smooth and slow like honey. They end up on a couch together, the leather sticky against her thighs. There's an ache in her belly, and her vision is blurry at the edges, gone soft from booze and the heat of the club.
She thinks about Harry, about his eyes when he smiles at her and his crooked glasses, his white teeth and the way he always smells the same. She lets this bloke - Mark, he said his name was - with his bright eyes and his pink tongue, push her against the couch. She closes her eyes when he kisses her and touches the skin of her stomach with cold, calloused hands.
It's after two before Ginny Apparates home on shaky legs, landing with a pop in the middle of the front room. Ron's snores greet her immediately, loud and wet sounding, and Harry's sitting in a chair next to the fireplace, looking sleepy but still awake.
"What are you doing here?" Ginny slurs, already unbuttoning her coat.
Harry glares blearily up at her from beneath the dark hair fallen in his eyes. "Well, I was waiting for you."
"Why?"
"We got back late and you weren't here. Just wanted to make certain you weren't...run over by an angry hippogriff or something."
Ginny peels off her coat and lets it puddle on the floor, watching smugly as Harry's eyes go wide. She knows how she looks, sweaty and probably thoroughly kissed, with what feels like a bruise in the shape of lips along her collarbone.
"Where -" Harry swallows. "Where were you?"
Shrugging her shoulders, Ginny wobbles her way into the kitchen. Water sounds just about perfect right now.
Harry's up and behind her in a flash. "Where were you?" he demands again, his voice quiet so as not to wake Ron from his slobbery slumber on the couch.
Ginny gulps down the cold water, both hands clutched around the glass, and leans her hips against the counter. She shrugs again. "I was out."
"I thought you said you were tired."
"Harry." Ginny frowns at him, putting down the glass. "What are even doing here? You have a flat of your own, don't you?"
Looking offended, Harry takes a step back. "We were worried about you," he explains.
Ginny's quiet, listening to Ron's snores. "Ron sounds really worried."
"He was. He just fell asleep."
"I'm a big girl."
"I'm well aware. But you looked sad when we left, and then you weren't here, so we decided to stay up and wait for you. Ron fell asleep, but I just decided to - "
"That's very sweet of you, Harry, but as you can see, I'm perfectly fine."
"You look perfectly fine," Harry comments dryly, watching as she shoves away from the counter to stagger towards her bedroom.
Ginny whips shakily around at her door to find him right behind her. "Don't you dare judge me, Harry Potter."
"I'm not," Harry whispers furiously. "I'm just -" He sighs and scratches the back of his head. "You looked sad, and now you come home pissed, and it's - I just wanted to make certain you were all right."
"You're not my brother."
"I know that, but I am your friend, and I was concerned. Because, you know." He gestures. "That what friends do."
Ginny lets out a bitter laugh. "Heh, friends. You know what friends do, Harry? They, they remember things, like birthdays and favourite foods and - "
"I remember your birthday - "
"And favourite colors, and they remember their girlfriends. But you," she screeches, barreling along despite the total confusion written on Harry's face, and jabbing a finger at him. "You just go and forget, like it was that easy. You, you - well, you're a total arse, that's what you are. Do you know how hard this has been? Do you? Watching you and wanting you and you don't even remember anything about me." She points a shaky finger at him. "Well, screw you, Harry Potter. I don't need you!"
She slams the door in his face. The last thing she sees just before it clicks shut are his eyes, soft and green behind his glasses, rounded with shock.
Digging in the second drawer of her dresser, Ginny pulls out a small, dark green sweater. She curls up with it on her bed, her nose pressed into its cables, and falls asleep, dizzy, with tears in her eyes.
iv.
There are some serious pluses to reliving the same day over and over, regardless of consequence. For one thing, no hangover, no matter how pissed you got the night before.
For another thing, no one remembers the spectacular arse you made of yourself. Also, waking up to a cacophony of pots and pans is starting to feel a little familiar, her own very loud, very annoying alarm.
She's up and showered, dressed in an old Hogwarts robe and out the door so quickly she barely catches the bleary hellos both Ron and Harry call to her. After being awake for less than twenty minutes, she decided to formulate a new plan, one that didn't involve spending all day yelling at trees and all night letting strange men grope her.
Apparating to Hogsmeade requires two stops along the way if she wants to be absolutely certain she won't Splinch herself, and then it's a thirty-minute walk down the well-worn path to Hogwarts' large, imposing gates.
When Ginny finally makes her way past the wards, past Hagrid, and past the front door - a process that eats up another hour of her morning - she doesn't even bother with searching out McGonagall, just rushes by the Great Hall, and down the dimly lit corridor to the library at the end.
Madam Pince retired last year (amidst a flurry of rumors when Filch retired a week later), so the new and possibly more stuffy looking librarian glares suspiciously at Ginny, but doesn't put up any protest at the sight of her. For once, Ginny's grateful for her small frame.
She makes a beeline directly for the rows of thick, leather-covered books on Elfin magic, pulls down a stack so heavy her arms ache immediately, finds a corner table, and sags into the chair. It's not even ten o'clock yet and she's exhausted. White light slants in from a window high above her, illuminating dust and a long stripe of the table. In it, Ginny's hands are pale and freckly. She pulls a book towards her, creaks it open and begins to read.
No one bothers her, shoved as deep as she is into a corner of the cavernous room, and she's hunched over, reading until the words swim before her eyes and her back aches.
Tomorrow she'll remember to bring a quill and parchment, but right now she's just grateful that the Elfin Queen didn't erase her memories along with everyone else's. Accord-ing to the books, it's only on the new moon that high elves can be reached, when what-ever borders between their world and this world fade enough to let communication occur, which means that Ginny will have to win Harry back in a matter of twenty-four hours or give up, to even reach the Queen again. And if she gives up -
Well, according to the book, aside from erasing memories and seriously screwing around with human perception of time, high elves are also capable of holding people captive - kidnapping them right from their homes in a number of cases.
It's the sort of thing that really should be taught in school, Ginny thinks. And she's got half a mind to scold McGonagall herself, though the headmistress won't remember it tomorrow, and anyway that's not the point. The point is, well, she's not giving up. She'll figure out a way to break this or die trying, and what the hell, she has all the time in the world.
Life is incredibly lonely when you're the only one living it. Her mornings and afternoons are spent in the same dusty library, and though she can change tables, read different books, comes to know that Madam Picket can read The Tale of Gwendolyn Howard: One Witch's Passionate Romance with Merlin in a single afternoon and likes her tea with three sugars and warm milk, her routine stays mind numbingly similar. The librarian never remembers her, and Ginny endures the same suspicious glare every morning, like clockwork, when she shuffles into the library. At one o'clock a young girl with a blue ribbon and a Ravenclaw patch slips into the back corner to find a book on House Elves, and sometimes, just for something new, Ginny takes the book from the shelf first, forcing conversation between herself and the girl.
She doesn't bother with taking notes, because they're gone when she wakes up in the morning, no matter where she puts them: under her pillow, in her desk drawer, folded up in one of the large, dusty books.
She writes letters, sometimes, to Hermione, telling her everything that happened during the day, to Ron or her mother, until it becomes habit, writing every night before she goes to bed, the scratchy nub of the quill a cold comfort to her. She never writes to Harry, never puts down into words how missing him is starting to feel like missing a limb, but one lost long ago, so that the ache is a constant but familiar tug in her belly.
Every morning the writing's gone from the parchment, like chalk marks erased on a blackboard.
She's got her broom and an old Snitch, and it's been a long time since she played, really played, just for fun. Even if it's just her and the cold air, she thinks it's exactly what she needs.
Ron and Harry are in the kitchen when she gets there, fastening a warm robe around her neck.
"Hello, my favourite sister," Ron says around a smile when he sees her. "What were you up to today?"
Ginny shrugs, thinking of the library and the now-familiar feel of old books beneath her fingers. "Not much."
Harry's there, of course, still wearing that ridiculous sweater. "We're heading down to the pub for a bite to eat if you want to come along?" he says.
Ginny looks into his eyes, smiles. "I was thinking of getting outside, actually. Maybe finding a Muggle-free area and flying around."
"Oh." Harry glances longingly at her broom, then at Ron.
Licking her lips, Ginny says, "You two are more than welcome to come, if you want."
By the time Harry and Ron shove sandwiches down their throats and get themselves situated, buttoning up warm cloaks, searching out old Quidditch gloves, and they find a deserted patch of land to fly above, it's dusk. The air is crisp and cool, all creamy yellow light, the sun a slip-sizzle sinking behind the clouds in wash of red and orange.
Light bounces off Harry's hair as he takes off, shoulders relaxed and a smile as wide as the English Channel stretched across his face.
They take turns, letting the Snitch loose and racing after it, Ginny and Harry laughing when Ron falls off his broom, Ron laughing when Harry does the same.
It's the first time in what feels like forever that Ginny's felt normal, free, and it's all she can do to stop the smile on her face from stretching her cheeks till they ache. The cold air smells new, and by the time they head in it's night-quiet and calm, the starlight reflecting off Harry's glasses.
Ginny wishes them goodnight eventually, knowing Harry will Apparate home and Ron will go to bed thinking of Hermione, and she hopes - futilely - that they will remember this come tomorrow morning.
The Burrow is quiet.
"Mum," Ginny calls after she lets herself in the front room. A fire's sparking in the hearth, and a family portrait rests above it; one taken years ago, before the war. Fred winks at her at she crosses by. Ginny looks away and calls again, "Mum, where are you?"
As Ginny's unwinding her scarf, she hears her mother's footsteps pad down the steps. "Oh, hello, dear." Surprise colours her voice.
"Hi, Mum." She unbuttons her cloak, lays it across the back of chair, only to pick it up again at her mum's stern glare. After putting in the closet, she turns around.
"What brings you here?"
Ginny shrugs. "Not much, I guess, just wanted to see how you were."
Her mum's eyes are bright. "Well, it's a lovely surprise. Come, have a cuppa?"
"What were you doing?"
"Oh." She flaps her hands when she talks, pointing a wand at the kettle and starting a fire beneath it. There's a large pot cooking on the stove, already. "Cleaning the attic out. Mrs. Muguffy down in the village is holding a yard sale. I was trying to see if there was anything I could spare, and one thing led to another, and it felt like a good time to do a thorough cleaning."
Ginny pulls down two mugs. "Need any help?"
"Oh!" Her mum's brown eyes go wide and warm. "If you'd like. There's certainly some stuff you'd probably like put aside for your own children, some day. Biscuits?"
"I'll get it, Mum. You go sit down," Ginny commands, which earns her a small smile.
A small plate of biscuits and two steaming mugs sit between them on the low table. The kitchen smells like beef stew, hearty, warm. It bubbles in the silence of the room. Looking out the back window, Ginny can see the garden, a wild riot of fall colour.
She studies her mother. There are new lines around her eyes, a few more grey hairs peppered through her faded red. "It's quiet here today," Ginny remarks.
"Typical around here these days," Molly says. "Especially since it's just your father and I now."
Guilt flashes in Ginny's gut. It's been over three weeks since she's been to visit, though not for lack of her mother trying.
"How's Ron doing?"
Ginny's lips quirk. "Oh, you know. He's okay. Hermione's with her parents for the weekend, which means he's useless. But he and Harry went on their first mock mission with the Aurors last night, and they seemed to have had a good time."
"Well, that's nice. I do wish those two had chosen something less dangerous to do. They've already given so much, don't you think?"
"Well, they both really like it."
"Very true. And what about you? When will you play your first game?"
"Oh, probably not until next year," Ginny admits. "Unless Pully or McArthur are hurt."
"And any new young men in your life?"
Ginny studies her cooling mug of tea. "No." She shakes her head. "No one new."
A cool, dry hand touches her own. She looks up into brown eyes very much like hers. "You'll find him some day, sweetheart." A smile. "How about you and I go up to the attic for a bit. Would you like to stay for dinner? Your father would be pleased to see you."
After a quiet meal with her parents, all but stuffing her face with stew and crusty, home baked bread, Ginny makes an effort to knit a striped scarf while her mum knits a large maroon sweater and her dad reads the paper. The fire crackles, and the wireless plays, and a sort of yellow, dim light infuses the room, while outside the window, night lays heavy over the ground.
"Do you think I could spend the night?" Ginny asks after her she watches her father give a wide yawn.
He aims a pleased smile her way. "You're always welcome to stay the night here, sweetie. There's no need to ask."
Ginny feels warmth crowd her chest. She smiles down at the half-knit scarf in her hand.
"In the morning we'll make a big breakfast," her mum says, patting her knee. "Pancakes and sausage, maybe. How does that sound?"
Ginny nods. "Sounds perfect," she answers quietly.
After brushing her teeth, Ginny finds an old pair of pyjamas and slips between the cool sheets her childhood bed. She pulls the comforter up to her chin.
She knows she won't wake up to the sound of her mother making breakfast, but for now, it's nice to pretend that she will.
She tries very hard not to lose track of the days, but with no real way of marking off the time, it becomes a bit difficult. On what she guesses is day fourteen, she leaves the library early, about three, and tries to feel like she's not giving up. Words run through her head, lists and facts about Elves and time and magic, but she's no closer to figuring anything out.
The small yard behind the flat is square, with leaves turned brown and a bench wide enough for two. The white sunlight nuzzles up her cheek when Ginny takes a stack of parchment out there. She plants herself on the bench, lost in the familiar scratch of quill on paper, when a Harry-shaped shadow falls across her.
"Here," he says.
Ginny looks up. "Here, what? Oh, thanks." She takes the mug of warm cider from his hands. "What's this for?"
Harry shrugs. His eyes are squinty in the afternoon sunlight. "Just woke up from my nap and saw you out here. You looked cold. Just thought - "
Ginny inhales deeply, the scent of apples brightening the air. "Thank you," she says sincerely.
"It's no problem. What're you doing?"
"Nothing. Just thinking."
Nodding, Harry says, "Don't let me interrupt then," and he turns to go.
"No," Ginny answers. "Stay." Harry pauses, looks skeptical. "Really, I could use the company."
Smiling, Harry relaxes beside her. His thigh is warm pressed against hers, and she can smell him, his Harry-scent, like sleep and warm sandalwood. His stubble shines in the sunlight.
"Here." Pulling out her wand, Ginny conjures a separate mug, and spills half her cider into it.
"Thanks." Silence, as they both watch a leaf dance on the wind. "What were you thinking about?"
Ginny shrugs. "Not much, really, just how - how strange life is, I guess."
She looks at him from the corner of her eye. Sunlight glints off his hair, making it shine.
"Strange," he repeats. "How so?"
Ginny laughs, feeling stupid. "I dunno, does it ever just feel...pointless?"
"Are you having some sort of - of...existential crisis I should know about?"
Laughing loud and bright, Ginny turns to look fully at him. "Existential crises?" she parrots, eyebrows raised.
Harry grins, tongue between his teeth and eyes bright. "Hermione forces me to read."
The cider is warm on her tongue, sugar-sweet. "No. I just - I just sometimes wonder what the point of all this is." She waves her hand around the square patch of yard.
Harry nods. "Maybe it is pointless," he says. "But I guess that means we should take advantage of it while it's here."
Just then, Ron walks into the lot, his bright red hair covered by an orange knit cap.
"You look ridiculous," Ginny tells him affectionately.
He grins at her. "I look adorable. You two look to be having some quality bonding time out here, but what d'you say we go bond with some food at the pub?"
Ginny catches Harry's eye. She looks back at Ron. "Sounds great."
Thinking about Harry's words leads her to the small garden out back nearly every day. She waits for him now, as he brings her a fresh mug of cider and she splits it with him, inviting him to sit down. He always smells the same, the light hits his hair and bounces off in exactly the same way, and they watch the same leaf catch on the wind, watch it dance past them.
"This is my favourite time," he comments to her one day.
She looks sharply at him. The wind blows against her cheek. "What do you mean?"
Shrugging, his cheeks go a little pink, and Ginny hides a smile.
"Just, you know, the way the light is, and how - I dunno." He shifts on the bench. "How pretty everything is."
"I like that you have a favourite time of day."
"It's so fragile, you know. Like, oh, I don't know - fleeting, or something."
Ginny frowns. "But, that's just, kind of sad, don't you think? It doesn't ever last long enough."
He meets her eyes. "Maybe, but it always comes back." She is sure they're no longer talking about the light. She takes a sip of her cider. It rests in her belly, candying the hot little ache there, and when Ron comes out to ask them to go to the pub, Ginny lets out a quiet sigh.
One day, Ginny just reaches up, and presses her lips flush against Harry's. His cheeks are cold, and he tastes like cider and sour sleep. She can feel his jerky intake of breath as he opens his lips, sticky, hot, under Ginny's mouth, his chin prickly. She licks into Harry's mouth, tongue scraping against his teeth. Hands come up, blunt nails scrape against Ginny's scalp, and Harry's tongue traces her lips. His familiar Harry-scent, warm sweat and sandalwood, rolls over Ginny, and when Harry makes a sound, undignified, all needy and quiet, it spreads heat through Ginny's body. Makes her heart thump thump in her ears.
When she finally pulls back, he stares at her with bright eyes, runs his tongue along his lips. "What was that for?"
Ginny shrugs. "Just...wanted to do it."
"Oh."
Ginny stands, offers a smile and watches him blink owlishly up at her. His lips are swollen. "I'll see you later, Harry."
When she gets to the door, she turns and casts a quick look at him. His fingers are pressed against his lips.
v
"Here."
Ginny looks up, not surprised to see Harry's hand extended, the steaming scent of apple cider fresh on the air.
"Thank you," she says, automatically reaching to take the mug from him. She sits on one side of the bench; there's plenty of room for another beside her. "What's...um, what's this for?"
Harry shrugs. He scratches the back of his neck, and squints down at her. "You looked cold."
"Here." Ginny pats the space next to her. "Have a seat."
"Oh, I don't want to interrupt."
"If I didn't want you to interrupt I wouldn't have told you to sit, Harry."
He sinks down to the bench. "You want half?" Ginny asks, already conjuring a second mug out of the air before waiting for his reply. Next to her, his thigh is warm and solid.
"Thanks."
"No problem. How was your nap?"
"Oh, you know..."
"Restful?" Ginny supplies, as Harry says, "Nap-like."
"What are you doing out here, anyway?" Harry asks. "Isn't it a little cold?"
"It's not too bad, though I guess my hands are a little numb. I was just, you know, thinking."
"What about? Quidditch?"
"Nope, Hagrid's knickers, actually."
"Ah, that was going to be my second guess."
"You can see why I was glad for the interruption."
Harry grins at her, sunlight bouncing off his glasses. "Glad I could provide a distraction."
"Yes, well, you're plenty distracting, Potter," Ginny admits. It's funny, how whatever filters come off when she knows he won't remember this the next day.
Harry's eyes are on her. "You're not so bad yourself, Weasley," he comments. Ginny bites the inside of her cheek to keep her smile in check. She feels heat blossom across her cheeks.
Harry's still watching her. "Wow," he murmurs after a moment.
Ginny meets his gaze directly. "What?"
His eyes skip away from hers, and one long pale hand pulls at a thread in his pants. "It's nothing...just - it's been awhile since I've seen you blush."
Ginny laughs, and feels her face grow hotter. Harry grins at her again. "I - don't even know what to say to that."
Harry's grin turns into a smirk. "My stellar conversation skills leaving you speechless again?"
"That must be it. Or, you know, your gift for completely random conversation."
"Either way, I'm obviously very talented."
"And humble."
She meets his eyes again, crinkled at the corners, and his teeth are white and straight. Ginny can't quite stop the ridiculous grin spreading across her face.
Ron steps outside then, says, "What are you two so smiley about?"
"How stupid you look in that hat?" Harry tells him, not missing a beat when he turns towards Ron.
Ron's smile turns into a mock-frown. "I look fabulous in this hat."
"Keep telling yourself that."
"Anybody up for some dinner at the pub?" Ron says, ignoring Ginny's remark.
"Actually," Ginny says, "I think I'm going to stay in tonight." She meets Harry eyes, runs her tongue along her top row of teeth. "But you two have fun."
"You sure?" Ron asks, and Ginny nods, inhaling deeply, and pressing her lips together. She smells apples and Harry's cologne.
Harry watches her. He turns to Ron, looks back at Ginny. "You know, Ron," he finally says, eyes still on Ginny. "I think I might stay in tonight, too."
Ginny nearly chokes on her cider. She watches some sort of look pass between Harry and Ron, and it makes her ears burn. Ron nods slowly. "Sure thing. I'll just pop by George's, see if he's up for a roaring good time with his brother. See you both later."
After he's gone with a grin and wave, Harry looks back at Ginny. "You don't mind if I stay here with you for a bit, do you?"
Ginny shakes her head. "I was thinking about maybe making some dinner, though. Do you want any?"
Harry's stomach chooses that moment to rumble, and he laughs.
"I guess that's a yes," Ginny comments.
"I guess so, if you let me help."
Harry stands, and his spine pops as he stretches back, the front of his shirt riding up to reveal the pale skin of his stomach.
Ginny looks down at her knees before standing. "How are you at reheating tinned soup?"
"Very good, actually."
He holds the door for her as they go inside, and it's not long before they're seated at the small table pushed up against the wall in the kitchen, facing each other with a pot of chicken soup between them.
"I am kind of envious that you get to play Quidditch and actually make money for it," Harry admits around a mouthful of soup. The one window above the sink is too high for Ginny to see anything but sky from her spot at the table. It's dark now, looks calm and quiet.
"So why didn't you play?" Ginny asks. The light in the kitchen is warm and glowing.
Harry shrugs. "Dunno. I guess, people kind of expected me to be an Auror after Voldemort, yeah?"
"I guess so," Ginny allows, "but I doubt anyone would think less if you did something else."
"Maybe."
"Maybe? Harry, you defeated Voldemort. I think we can safely say you did enough for the wizarding world."
Harry smiles at her.
Ginny continues, "All that matters is if you're happy. I mean, do you want to be an Auror?"
Harry nods, slowly. "I do. It feels important, you know. Good. It would be nice to get out and play some Quidditch every now and then, though."
Ginny smiles softly at him. "If you want, you and I can go out once a week. And I promise not to be too hard on you."
"You'd go out and play Quidditch with me once a week, just so I won't miss it?"
Meeting his eyes, Ginny shrugs. "Of course."
Harry's eyes crinkle. He looks grateful, as if he can't quite believe that she would do something nice for him, just because. "I guess I'll have to take you up on that," he says after a moment.
Ginny looks down at her bowl. Warmth spreads across her chest. "I guess you will," she says around a smile.
Later, while standing at the sink, Harry comments, "You're really easy to talk to," like he's surprised about it. He's drying the last of the dishes.
Ginny feels her eyebrows rise. "Are you just figuring this out now?"
"No. I just thought maybe you should - er - know?" he says, hands clutching the dishtowel.
"Well, then, thank you," Ginny says. Fleetingly, she feels a stab of guilt, as if she's somehow taking advantage of him, but Ginny pushes the feeling away. His glasses are crooked. Ginny smiles, stretches right up to him and straightens them, hands brushing against the cool skin of cheeks. He's holding his breath, and Ginny feels the room go warmer. Her chest tightens.
She pulls the towel out of his grip, puts it on the counter, looks up into his eyes. They're dark. He smiles down at her, tongue flicking out against his bottom lip for a moment.
Of course it feels natural to her, to lift up and press a kiss to his wet mouth. He tastes like chicken soup, and when Ginny goes to pull away, damp hands hold her in place, one touching the crown of her head, the other on the small of her back. Ginny goes to him willingly, pressing herself against him. He licks into her, tongue touching the roof her mouth, and it's swift, the way the heat rises inside her, leaves her panting and wanting more.
He breaks away first, eyes wide with surprise. "Ginny, what was that - "
Ginny tips on her toes, still crowded next to him. She's so close she can see the different flecks of green in his eyes, the blown pupils. "Shhh," she whispers. His hand rests on her back, heavy and warm. "Don't - don't talk," she says. He smells familiar, and he feels familiar, and Ginny shuts her eyes, leaning into him again.
His mouth opens above hers, wet and warm, and his tongue flicks inside, deep, sure. In no time at all he's got her pressed against the counter, hips pinning her against it. Half-bitten nails scratch at her scalp, making her shiver and her insides go liquid.
She pushes up his jumper, the t-shirt underneath it, and traces her fingers against his belly button, where she knows he's sensitive, feeling it jump beneath her fingers. It makes her feel powerful.
"God." His hips falter forward, and he breaks the kiss again to hang his head low between them, eyes shut and breathing strained.
"I - I want - " Harry stutters, and Ginny wonders, briefly, who he's been with in this reality, but she pushes the thought aside, bending up to nip at his stubbled chin, to run her tongue along the edge of jaw, pulling away salt and warmth. He makes a sound, needy, a little desperate.
"I know, Harry," Ginny soothes, slotting their mouths together again. His glasses press against her. And she's not playing fair, she knows, when she runs her hands up under his shirt, presses herself against him and bites into his mouth. But it feels good and she goes with it, pushing him back slightly, before taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom.
He follows, willingly, and only stops once they're at her door. His eyes are wide, nervous, but dark and aroused. Ginny can see his cock, half-hard and pressed flat against his thigh. "Ginny, I don't think - "
"Shut it," Ginny whispers. She lays one hand on him, pressing against his dick, and his hips snap forward, his eyes drop shut. She touches her lips to his.
"D-damn," he stutters, and Ginny grins against his mouth. "Your brother..."
"Isn't here - "
"No, but he trusts me, and - " His hips are still straining towards her palm.
Ginny pulls back slightly, moving her hand away, and bites back a smile when Harry's lips automatically move into a pout. His eyes are glassy, heavy.
"Harry," Ginny says, moving into the room. Harry follows. "We're both consenting adults." She flicks on the lamp; it spills yellow light in a wide circle. The light catches on Harry's lips.
"I know, but - "
"Shut the door, Harry," Ginny commands gently, hands already moving to pull her jumper up and over her head.
Harry does as she asks, turns back around to look at her, and watches her.
"Ginny," he says, voice strained. She's still wearing her trousers, but her shirt is missing now. Briefly, she wishes she had planned for this, put on a pretty bra, or even lipstick, but his eyes are too aroused for the thought to stay long, and every place his gaze touches makes her burn. She knows she must be red.
"Harry, can you - can you touch me, please?" she begs, insides thrumming with anticipation.
He gives a jerky nod, closing the distance between them with two long steps. He kisses with more confidence this time, lips opening automatically and licking into her. One large, warm hand presses against her back, and the other cups a breast. The air rushes out of Ginny's lungs. "Oh," she says against his lips, pushing up into his hand. Fingers slip beneath the cotton, rub against a nipple, where it goes diamond tipped, hard, while everything else inside her goes soft.
A hand brackets her hip as he pushes her back against the bed. His weight is warm against her lower half, pressing her down, and she drags both his pullover and shirt up and over his head, as he lifts first one arm and then the other.
When he emerges, hair sticking up and glasses knocked off, he smiles at her, eyes going slightly unfocused. He keeps his chest lifted, weight held up by his arms. Ginny runs her nails along his back, watching his head dip forward again, the muscles in his neck straining.
Lips press against her collarbone, wet, and his tongue runs smoothly along her skin. Ginny's toes curl against her comforter. His mouth touches everywhere he can reach, warm breath tickling the sensitive spot behind her ear, dampening her white bra, making it go translucent.
Moonlight slants through her window; it makes his hair shine blue. This, Ginny thinks, struggling to get her bra off and still keep his lips connected to her flesh, this is what she's missed. His hands, pale and long, as they press against the well at the small of her back, and his mouth wet and smooth. She smiles when she finally unzips him, hand touching his hot flesh, and he doesn't bother biting back the groan or the yeah, yeah please that rumbles out his mouth.
When he slips his fingers into her, he gasps low, and she's so wet that his fingers move easily, though without much confidence. It's been so long since she's had this, had him near her, over her, and Ginny's whole body aches with greed, with want. She kicks off her trousers, guides his hand inside her, hips moving in steady circles as she leads him to her clit, watches the way his brow furrows in concentration and how he bites his lip.
"Ginny, you're so - "
"For you," Ginny tells him, as his eyes go dark and possessive. He moves his fingers, more surely this time, and Ginny's eyes shut. The room is unbearably warm. Harry slips lower, tongue flicking against her navel before he bites her inner thigh, and presses his tongue flat against her. Ginny writhes and squirms, contorting the slick comforter beneath her, whole body taut and thrumming with need. It threatens to tear her apart. "Harry," she whispers, his name caught somewhere low in her throat.
Then he stops, and Ginny can't quite control the whimper that forces its way out of her throat. Harry mouths his way back up her body, briefly bending to kiss a nipple, heat in his gaze. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asks, his pupils blown wide and his shoulders tense. Ginny lifts her head, presses her lips to his.
"I'm sure," she promises. Opening her thighs wider, feeling his dick press hard against her, Ginny lifts her hips off the bed.
When he kisses her this time she can taste herself there, and when she licks into him he moans, low and deep. His face is indecipherable when he pulls back, whole body shaking. Heat sweeps across her shoulders, and lower, thrumming through her body.
When he pushes into her, Harry's mouth falls open on a silent groan. Ginny pants as his hips stutter forward. Her hands clutch at his naked, slippery back, and she leaves her eyes open, watching the tendons in his neck tighten as he bends his head.
It's jerky and imperfect, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. Halfway through, his arms give out, and he lands with an oomph. Ginny laughs, cants her hips slightly, and presses him against her. Sweat beads across his forehead. She bites at his neck, and moves her hand back between their bodies, fingers rubbing her clit and hand knocking into him.
"God," Harry pants. "God. Ginny..." and his voice is surprised, low, almost panicky.
"It's okay," Ginny whispers. Her toes curl, hips faltering. "It's - Oh..." Ginny whimpers and bites down too hard when she comes, body shattering apart. She watches Harry's eyes slide shut on a groan, holds on, as his hips go jerky, and his buries his face against Ginny's neck, her name on his lips.
When it's over, Ginny laughs.
Harry grunts and sits up. His face is shiny with sweat. "Something funny about that?"
She looks at his scowling face, and laughs harder, shoulders shaking with it. "Oh, no," she tries to explain, nearly choking on her laughter. "It's not - it wasn't funny, I just. I'm just really relieved."
"You're so - you're not laughing at me?"
Ginny tugs on his hand, pulling him down beside her. Moonlight slants blue through the window, highlighting his collarbone. He smells like chicken soup and cologne, sweat. "No, Harry, I'm not laughing at you."
Harry squints at her. "You're just relieved? Can you hand me my glasses?"
Ginny bends over the side of the bed, rummaging around and saying, "Yes, relieved." She settles on her back. "Here."
"Relieved why?" With his glasses on, Harry's eyes focus fully on her. She smiles at him. Everything about this is comforting, familiar, even when it's not.
"Just - if you knew how long I've wanted this."
Harry smiles down at her. "How long? I mean, I certainly wouldn't have turned this down. Ginny, you are a pretty fit girl - "
"Well, thank you - "
"You're quite welcome." Harry grins. Ginny's lying naked on the bed, as Harry's hand traces smoothly along her ribs. "I mean, you're - well, I - all you had to do was say something."
"If only it were that easy."
"Why wouldn't it be?"
Ginny licks her lips. She watches Harry's eyes follow the movement. "You'll think I'm crazy," she tells him.
He looks at her. "So tell me anyway."
"Okay."
"Okay."
"A elf," Harry repeats.
Ginny nods. "Elfin Queen, actually." She's wearing his pullover, the sleeves cuffed back, and she sits with her knees pulled up to her chest, her back pressed against the headboard.
Sitting in front of her, Harry says, "And you were my girlfriend?"
"Yep."
"For how long?"
"Um, well, a little over two years, I guess, though you ditched me for awhile, but that was - well, it wasn't a real breakup, just -. " She stops. Harry's silent, just looking at her like he's trying to figure out a puzzle. "I told you," she says awkwardly to fill in the silence. "Crazy."
Finally, Harry says, "If you were my girlfriend, did we have sex?"
Ginny blinks at him. "Um, yes?"
"Whenever we wanted."
"Sure."
Harry's silent for a moment. Then he says, "Wow, I wish I remembered that."
Ginny's laugh is loud, quick. "You're such a bloke, Harry."
Harry's eyes shine, but he says to her, "I'm sorry you've had to go through that."
"So you believe me?" Ginny asks. Her toes are pressed against his calf.
He shrugs. "I don't not believe you."
"I guess it doesn't matter anyway. You won't remember this in the morning."
"So I was the most important person to you?"
"What?"
"You said that the elf told you she would take away the most important person. That was me?"
"I don't - I guess."
"Did you love me?"
Ginny meets his eyes. "I do - er, I did, or. Yes."
Harry's lips press together. He picks at a thread on the quilt thrown across her bed. Quietly, he murmurs, "Wow."
Ginny tucks her hands into the sleeves of his pullover and thinks, yeah. Wow.
Blinking her eyes open, the first think Ginny notices is the silence.
"Morning," says Harry. He's propped up on an elbow, studying her.
Ginny glares. "I hate it when you do that. It's creepy."
Harry smiles at her. "I know. I'm sorry. You just look so innocent; it's hard to believe."
"Ha ha," Ginny mumbles. "How would you like it if you woke up to find me staring at you?"
Harry shrugs. "Payback, I guess." His cheeks are cut through with pillow creases, lips red and molten. Ginny stares. Something about him looks different. Light streams though the window. Which means it's daytime, but Harry -
Ginny starts and lets out a squawk. "Harry, what are you doing here?"
Harry blinks at her. "Er, I don't - I spent the night, remember?"
"Spent the night?"
"Yes."
"Okay, what did we do last night?"
"Ginny, are you feeling - "
"What did we do?" Ginny interupts.
Looking at her like she's mad, Harry answers, "We stayed in. Made dinner and then went to bed."
"Went to bed," Ginny parrots. "So we shagged?"
"Well, yeah."
"What did we talk about?"
"I don't know. Quidditch, my Auror stuff, just normal stuff."
"No, after sex, what did we talk about?"
His eyes go squinty. "I don't - I don't remember, I guess nothing."
"Are you my boyfriend?"
A pause. "Aren't I usually?"
"No - I mean, yes, I mean - of course." Ginny's cheeks stretch in a smile. Warmth crowds her chest. "Of course you are, I just - "
"Are you feeling okay?" Harry asks again. His breath is sleep-sour against her cheek.
Ginny looks down. She swadled in his green jumper, and the sunlight shining through the window is bright and clear. Ginny laughs, loud and strong. "I'm feeling great. Amazing, actually. What are your plans for the day?'
"I don't kn- "
"We should get up, and go wake Ron up, maybe. And then go to my parents, because I'm certain they'd love to see us, all of us, for breakfast, and then later, when Hermione comes home, maybe we could all go play Quidditch somewhere. How long has it been since you've played?"
Harry blinks slowly at her. "I don't think I've ever seen you so happy this early in the morning," he remarks. His hair is insane, and Ginny sighs, running her fingers through it.
"I'm just - it's a new day, yeah? Lots of happy possibilites. But you know what I want to do first?" Ginny leers at him, waggles her eyebrows. "First I want to make up for lost time."
Harry looks fondly at her. "You're kind of crazy," he says around a smile, pushing his head against her hand.
Ginny says, "I know I am," and she leans in for a kiss.
Author's Note, part the second: It's been brought to my attention
that the scene where Harry and Ginny discuss the dying light is very
similar to a scene from Chapter 43 of
After the End by Arabella and Zsyena, and while I adore that
story, any similarities are entirely unintentional.