Fic: "That Time Again"
Title: That Time Again
Author: Tosca
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,425 words
Summary: Harry always hit a certain point in October where leaving England became almost necessary.
Notes: Written for the hpgw_otp Passage of Time Challenge. My prompt: that time again (hence the title, because I'm so creative).
“I think I need to go away,” Harry said one rainy night in October. It was late and dark in their room, his arm curved over Ginny’s side and his mouth near her shoulder; the blankets lay forgotten at their feet, kicked away hours ago.
The words were familiar, the thought cyclical; Harry always hit a certain point in October, right near Halloween (even if Voldemort was gone, he’d still ruined an entire holiday for the rest of Harry’s life, and no kid’s costume or amount of candy would help that) when leaving England became almost necessary.
Almost, because he never had.
Laying on her back, the length of her leg pressed to his, she looked over at him. Even in the wet darkness, he could see the imperceptible change in Ginny’s gaze, the slight roll of the eye, twitch of her mouth: it’s that time again, he could see her thinking.
But, as usual, she played along.
“Go where?” she asked sleepily, all long-freckled limbs and bright eyes. She was fuzzy without his glasses, but he didn’t want to reach for them now, to break his train of thought.
“Anywhere,” he said eagerly, sliding his fingertips up and down the line of her arm. “Egypt, France, India-“
“Not India,” she protested, as she always did, naked but for one of his button-down shirts. It hit her thighs mid-way, a proven distraction, but this time, he wouldn’t get off-track.
He frowned down at her, propped up on one elbow. “Why not India?”
She shrugged. “Too big. Too hot.”
Fine, he’d give her that one, as he always did. “All right, not India. How about Belgium?”
Sitting up in bed, she propped herself against the headboard and clasped her hands demurely in her lap. “That’s a new country. For the fries?”
“And the chocolate.”
“There’s not much else to see,” she teased, tilting her head. “Where else?”
He rolled onto his stomach, wriggling his way between her legs and setting his chin on her hipbone, curling into her body warmth. “Maybe Greece.”
She smiled at him, fingers uncurling from themselves and slipping over the planes of his face. “Greece would be lovely. Warm, full of history, good food,” she said lightly.
“Greece it is,” he said, hands curving under her tones thighs, gripping tightly. He turned his cheek into her touch, warm breath moistening the thin cotton separating his mouth from her skin.
“When will you leave?” she asked, voice softening.
“As soon as I can,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to warm cotton, feeling the rounded hip bone with his lips.
Goosebumps rose under his touch, her fingers twisting in his hair. “Send me postcards,” she murmured, spreading her legs farther apart as his mouth found its way down her thigh and under the shirt.
He bit her skin gently, marking her; he liked the hitch in her breath, the shudder in her fingers. “I’m serious this time.”
Her fingers tightened in his hair, a husky laugh floating in the air. “You always are.”
*
He didn’t go, of course. Just as last year, he hadn’t gone to Argentina in October, and Italy the year before that, and France the autumn after defeating Voldemort, when he’d been tired of training and spells and hexes and wanted to go try something new. Each year, Ginny heard his plans and said send me postcards, and each year he didn’t go and she never mentioned it again.
This year, the fourth year of send me postcards and I’m serious this time, Ginny had moved in with him full-time, and it only took until mid-November to remember that he hadn’t gone again. Usually it took until January, what with missions and Ginny’s Quidditch matches and things to keep him busy.
But she was there, every morning, every night, and in the darkness, he watched her sleep and remembered the quirk in her mouth, the little sigh of resignation, the dialogue they had down pat (India-not India-why not India?), and it burned inside, a sad sort of resentment. The need to resist her, to demand an explanation, it nagged at him until he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Why don’t you make me go?” he asked finally over breakfast, his toast and eggs untouched.
Ginny looked up with a start, fork mid-way to her mouth. The November sun was weak and thin through the windows of their little cottage, skies grey and threatening snow outside. “Go where?”
“Anywhere. When I say I need to go, you don’t make me,” he said, a cherry pit of anger gnawing at his insides.
Pursing her lips, she set her fork down and leaned back in her chair, a hard blazing sort of glaze coming over her eyes. “I assume if you really wanted to go, you would,” she said evenly.
“I do want to go!” he exclaimed.
“Then go, Harry! Stop talking about it year after year and leave,” she hissed, red rising in her cheeks. “Since you want to go to some foreign country so badly, do it.”
He frowned. “You don’t want me to.”
“Yes, that must be it,” she said bitingly. “What do I always say? Send me postcards. Does that sound like don’t go to you?”
Sputtering, he slumped back in his chair, wordless. Silence hung heavily between them, frigid and bare.
After an eternity, she sighed and stood up from the table, breaking the spell. “Tell me something,” she said quietly. “Do you really want to go to these places? Or do you just not want to be here on Halloween?”
His stomach turned on itself sickeningly, and he looked stubbornly down into his cold tea.
“I’m going to practice now,” she said softly. “I’ll see you later.”
She left him there in the empty kitchen, out of sorts and out of reasons.
*
She was right, of course. Ginny had that horrible tendency to be right about those sorts of things. Because he knew that every time she thought it’s that time again, when he brought up different countries and holidays in those chilly October days, he was thinking the same thing. Except when it was that time again, he thought of betrayals and parents sacrificing themselves for their only child, a lonely house still left in ruins, a fading scar.
He usually passed over the day with forced carelessness, but now that he could, he wanted to run. After everything that had turned out right, he still wanted to run from the memory of a day he didn’t even recall, and he knew there was something wrong with that.
So, he decided to do something about it.
When she came home that night, he was safely ensconced in the living room, literature on Greece laying out on the coffee table. She came in quieter than usual, but it was like a change in the air, a warming of the space between, just as it was every time she came home to their home.
“Bringing work home with you?” she asked as she appeared in the doorway, relaxed and easy in her usual post-practice outfit of jeans and a pullover. Her hair lay in thick damp strands over her shoulders.
He lifted up a brochure. “This is where I really want to go,” he said.
She walked over to him, perching herself on the arm of the sofa and taking the paper with lithe fingertips. “Greece does sound wonderful,” she said easily.
“We could go together, maybe,” he said.
Color rose over her neck as she met his eyes. “Together?”
He shrugged, pushing his glasses up with his index finger. “When you’re on break from the season, in January. It doesn’t matter when we go, I reckon. I just want to go, and I want to go with you,” he said simply, the nape of his neck hot.
She watched him for a long moment, eyes dark and soft. “I would like that,” she said finally, sliding off the arm of the sofa and over the cushions into his lap.
Leaning back, he rested his hands on her hips, thumb tracing the line of her bones through the pullover. “And maybe-maybe next Halloween, we could go somewhere else,” he said quietly, breathing in the fresh soap-sweet smell of her hair and skin.
Her fingers light on his chest, she leaned in, pressing her mouth to his. “That time again, already?” she whispered into his mouth, voice light and teasing.
He tightened his grip and shut his eyes, kissing the words right from her.
*
Author: Tosca
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,425 words
Summary: Harry always hit a certain point in October where leaving England became almost necessary.
Notes: Written for the hpgw_otp Passage of Time Challenge. My prompt: that time again (hence the title, because I'm so creative).
“I think I need to go away,” Harry said one rainy night in October. It was late and dark in their room, his arm curved over Ginny’s side and his mouth near her shoulder; the blankets lay forgotten at their feet, kicked away hours ago.
The words were familiar, the thought cyclical; Harry always hit a certain point in October, right near Halloween (even if Voldemort was gone, he’d still ruined an entire holiday for the rest of Harry’s life, and no kid’s costume or amount of candy would help that) when leaving England became almost necessary.
Almost, because he never had.
Laying on her back, the length of her leg pressed to his, she looked over at him. Even in the wet darkness, he could see the imperceptible change in Ginny’s gaze, the slight roll of the eye, twitch of her mouth: it’s that time again, he could see her thinking.
But, as usual, she played along.
“Go where?” she asked sleepily, all long-freckled limbs and bright eyes. She was fuzzy without his glasses, but he didn’t want to reach for them now, to break his train of thought.
“Anywhere,” he said eagerly, sliding his fingertips up and down the line of her arm. “Egypt, France, India-“
“Not India,” she protested, as she always did, naked but for one of his button-down shirts. It hit her thighs mid-way, a proven distraction, but this time, he wouldn’t get off-track.
He frowned down at her, propped up on one elbow. “Why not India?”
She shrugged. “Too big. Too hot.”
Fine, he’d give her that one, as he always did. “All right, not India. How about Belgium?”
Sitting up in bed, she propped herself against the headboard and clasped her hands demurely in her lap. “That’s a new country. For the fries?”
“And the chocolate.”
“There’s not much else to see,” she teased, tilting her head. “Where else?”
He rolled onto his stomach, wriggling his way between her legs and setting his chin on her hipbone, curling into her body warmth. “Maybe Greece.”
She smiled at him, fingers uncurling from themselves and slipping over the planes of his face. “Greece would be lovely. Warm, full of history, good food,” she said lightly.
“Greece it is,” he said, hands curving under her tones thighs, gripping tightly. He turned his cheek into her touch, warm breath moistening the thin cotton separating his mouth from her skin.
“When will you leave?” she asked, voice softening.
“As soon as I can,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to warm cotton, feeling the rounded hip bone with his lips.
Goosebumps rose under his touch, her fingers twisting in his hair. “Send me postcards,” she murmured, spreading her legs farther apart as his mouth found its way down her thigh and under the shirt.
He bit her skin gently, marking her; he liked the hitch in her breath, the shudder in her fingers. “I’m serious this time.”
Her fingers tightened in his hair, a husky laugh floating in the air. “You always are.”
*
He didn’t go, of course. Just as last year, he hadn’t gone to Argentina in October, and Italy the year before that, and France the autumn after defeating Voldemort, when he’d been tired of training and spells and hexes and wanted to go try something new. Each year, Ginny heard his plans and said send me postcards, and each year he didn’t go and she never mentioned it again.
This year, the fourth year of send me postcards and I’m serious this time, Ginny had moved in with him full-time, and it only took until mid-November to remember that he hadn’t gone again. Usually it took until January, what with missions and Ginny’s Quidditch matches and things to keep him busy.
But she was there, every morning, every night, and in the darkness, he watched her sleep and remembered the quirk in her mouth, the little sigh of resignation, the dialogue they had down pat (India-not India-why not India?), and it burned inside, a sad sort of resentment. The need to resist her, to demand an explanation, it nagged at him until he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Why don’t you make me go?” he asked finally over breakfast, his toast and eggs untouched.
Ginny looked up with a start, fork mid-way to her mouth. The November sun was weak and thin through the windows of their little cottage, skies grey and threatening snow outside. “Go where?”
“Anywhere. When I say I need to go, you don’t make me,” he said, a cherry pit of anger gnawing at his insides.
Pursing her lips, she set her fork down and leaned back in her chair, a hard blazing sort of glaze coming over her eyes. “I assume if you really wanted to go, you would,” she said evenly.
“I do want to go!” he exclaimed.
“Then go, Harry! Stop talking about it year after year and leave,” she hissed, red rising in her cheeks. “Since you want to go to some foreign country so badly, do it.”
He frowned. “You don’t want me to.”
“Yes, that must be it,” she said bitingly. “What do I always say? Send me postcards. Does that sound like don’t go to you?”
Sputtering, he slumped back in his chair, wordless. Silence hung heavily between them, frigid and bare.
After an eternity, she sighed and stood up from the table, breaking the spell. “Tell me something,” she said quietly. “Do you really want to go to these places? Or do you just not want to be here on Halloween?”
His stomach turned on itself sickeningly, and he looked stubbornly down into his cold tea.
“I’m going to practice now,” she said softly. “I’ll see you later.”
She left him there in the empty kitchen, out of sorts and out of reasons.
*
She was right, of course. Ginny had that horrible tendency to be right about those sorts of things. Because he knew that every time she thought it’s that time again, when he brought up different countries and holidays in those chilly October days, he was thinking the same thing. Except when it was that time again, he thought of betrayals and parents sacrificing themselves for their only child, a lonely house still left in ruins, a fading scar.
He usually passed over the day with forced carelessness, but now that he could, he wanted to run. After everything that had turned out right, he still wanted to run from the memory of a day he didn’t even recall, and he knew there was something wrong with that.
So, he decided to do something about it.
When she came home that night, he was safely ensconced in the living room, literature on Greece laying out on the coffee table. She came in quieter than usual, but it was like a change in the air, a warming of the space between, just as it was every time she came home to their home.
“Bringing work home with you?” she asked as she appeared in the doorway, relaxed and easy in her usual post-practice outfit of jeans and a pullover. Her hair lay in thick damp strands over her shoulders.
He lifted up a brochure. “This is where I really want to go,” he said.
She walked over to him, perching herself on the arm of the sofa and taking the paper with lithe fingertips. “Greece does sound wonderful,” she said easily.
“We could go together, maybe,” he said.
Color rose over her neck as she met his eyes. “Together?”
He shrugged, pushing his glasses up with his index finger. “When you’re on break from the season, in January. It doesn’t matter when we go, I reckon. I just want to go, and I want to go with you,” he said simply, the nape of his neck hot.
She watched him for a long moment, eyes dark and soft. “I would like that,” she said finally, sliding off the arm of the sofa and over the cushions into his lap.
Leaning back, he rested his hands on her hips, thumb tracing the line of her bones through the pullover. “And maybe-maybe next Halloween, we could go somewhere else,” he said quietly, breathing in the fresh soap-sweet smell of her hair and skin.
Her fingers light on his chest, she leaned in, pressing her mouth to his. “That time again, already?” she whispered into his mouth, voice light and teasing.
He tightened his grip and shut his eyes, kissing the words right from her.
*