Song Lyric Challenge Fic: "Twin Pillars" (PG-13)
Title: Twin Pillars
Pen Name: tosca1390
Characters/Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Word Count: 2,550 words
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance, I suppose.
Summary: His life was parchment and ink and publicity stunts, and it wasn’t exactly what he’d thought it would be.
Song Lyrics:
Tonight you arrested my mind when you came to my defense
With a knife in the shape of your mouth
In the form of your body with the wrath of a gun
Oh, you stood by me, belief.
-"Belief", Gavin DeGraw
Disclaimer: I don't own it, I just like playing on its swing set. That's it. No copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: All right, on time, under the wire! Yes! This, undoubtedly, took a very different turn from what I thought I was writing, but I'm pleased. My interpretation of the lyrics is more of an essence, I think. I hope it's enjoyable! Thanks to the mods, for hosting this challenge!
Wind blustered through the graying trees as Harry jiggled with the door of his flat, a sure sign of the settling of autumn. But the flat was lit up and warm, and he breathed out slowly as he entered the front corridor, peeling off his cloak. It had been a rough day. Certainly, Harry had gone through worse, but there was something about the monotony of an office that drained him dry, and today had been all paperwork, all day, all evening, just as the day before that, and the week before, and so on. His life was parchment and ink and publicity stunts, and it wasn’t exactly what he’d thought it would be.
He padded quietly through the corridor, stopping in the door to the living room. Ginny lay stretched out on his sofa, eyes shut and hair splayed out bright against the black fabric. A book with pages curling at the edges perched on her chest, rising with her slow breaths, and one socked foot dangled off the edge of the cushion. It was perfectly normal, and yet he couldn’t stop the warm crowding in his ribcage, just to see her there, long and toned from near-daily Quidditch, a constant pillar of support. He wondered if he’d ever not be glad to see her.
After a few minutes of rustling around in the kitchen, he entered the living room once more, curling himself into a large, cushy chair opposite the sofa; it was red, and reminded him of his favorite chair in the Gryffindor common room. He tucked a knee onto the cushion and tucked into his day-old sweet-and-sour chicken, trying to salve away his day as the wind whistled faintly in the dark outdoors.
At her sigh, he looked up from his carton to see her watching him, a pale, freckled hand resting over the planes of the book.
“Watching me sleep, Potter?”
He smiled slightly. “Guilty.”
She wrinkled her nose and yawned. “You’re an odd one.”
“I think it’s flattering that I want to stare at you at all,” he said, chewing on his cold chicken.
“Your sentimental streak is unending,” she teased, nestling herself deeper into the sofa. “Who knew it was in you.”
He pressed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, watching her carefully. “How was practice?”
Shrugging, she drummed her fingers lazily on the book cover. “Good. Looking forward to my day off. Is it terrible to want Christy to injure herself badly enough so that I’ll be able to start a match soon, but not be permanently maimed?”
He snorted and swallowed a particularly spicy bite of chicken. “No, and you’ll start soon. You’ve only been with them a year, you’ve got time.”
“Says the top Auror in the department, at the ripe old age of twenty,” she teased.
At the mention of work, all the muscles in his writing hand seemed to cramp up in unison, but he smiled tightly. “Yeah. So says I,” he said finally, poking at his chicken.
“Bad day?” she asked.
“Normal day. Lots of paperwork. Sometimes, I think all I do is paperwork,” he said with a forced lightness, but the pressure in his chest slipped down to his middle. He thought of his desk, of the piles of parchment waiting for him, of the people who walked through the corridors for no real reason other than to catch a glimpse of him, to see him in his natural habitat, so to speak.
An odd quiet lay between them for a moment, and then she shifted on the sofa, sitting upright. Her hair was a bit tousled, and her eyes still were half-open from sleep, but the twist to her lips was all alertness. “You’re being rather cryptic, which you should know isn’t your strength,” she said lightly. “What’s the matter?”
He said nothing, merely ate another forkful of chicken. She rolled her eyes, sliding her hand through her hair. “Well, let’s guess then. You’re bored.”
At that, he nearly choked on his food, coughing as she smiled in triumph. “See, you’re not such a puzzle, Harry Potter,” she said, getting to her feet and strolling over to him. She took his carton and set it on the coffee table gently before settling herself on the arm of the chair, her feet planted lightly on his thigh. “Why are you bored?”
Making a face at her, he curled his fingers over her ankle, touching the freckles dotted there. “Paperwork is boring,” he corrected her. “My job is not.”
“Of course it is. You’re the face of the new world order, and it’s only been three years,” she said, words sharp in the air. “The Ministry doesn’t want to lose you in some silly mission.”
His gut curdled, impotence dulling his nerves. “I didn’t sign up for paperwork,” he said, thumb stroking the jutting bone of her ankle. “I wish they’d let me in the field more often.”
“You ought to tell them that,” she said, fingers slipping into the hair near his temple.
“I have,” he said tiredly, leaning into the touch.
She curled her toes against his trousers. “Well, I’ll go tell them, then.”
At that, he chuckled, looking up at her. “You do that. They’ll be falling at your feet.”
She smiled, teeth a sharp flash of white in the warm light. “My Bat-Bogey could use practice.”
“I doubt that,” he muttered, fingers stroking up her calf, under her jeans. “Used it on George last week, didn’t you?”
“Sure, but I don’t want to get rusty.” Her face lit up then, flushing prettily and arresting his attention completely. “You reckon Christy wouldn’t be able to fly with the Bat-Bogey on her? There wouldn’t be any permanent damage.”
He grinned, tugging on her leg until she took the hint and scooted into the chair, legs dangling off the sides as she sat half on him, half on the cushion. “You’ll start soon enough, Gin. You’re too good not to.”
She sighed a bit wistfully, playing with the buttons on his shirt. “It’s only that I know I’m better than Christy, and I know Gwen knows it, but it’s all politics out there.” She snorted at that, kicking her feet lightly in the air. “I went into Quidditch to escape all that political shite, and now I’m right back in it.”
He felt her pain, quite keenly, but he didn’t want to dwell right now. He’d done his share of that already. “Well, how about I go hex your bosses while you go hex mine?” he asked lightly.
“Perfect, then we’ll both be on the run together,” she teased, eyes soft and warm on his face. “Of course, it’ll be sad to leave this flat, having just moved in.”
“We’ll take the chair with us,” he said, skin thrumming as he watched the muscles in her neck.
She laughed softly, leaning into press her mouth to his, a glancing, open kiss. “That settles it. Be ready to run.”
He shut his eyes and kissed her back harder, his hand tight on her knee. As she opened her mouth to his, her fingers sliding his glasses into his spiky hair, he let himself forget the monotonous day, filling the gaping ache with her.
*
Ron was off in the field once more, and Harry felt too familiar with his office, once more. Newspapers lay out before him, headlines and paragraphs wondering why the Chosen One is hiding in the safety of the Ministry’s arms whilst the real Aurors were doing his job. Frankly, he was surprised it had taken the press so long to catch on, but now, they were coming on him in force. Rita Skeeter even went so far to say that his defeat of Voldemort was pure luck, and he wasn’t worth very much in the scheme of things, after all.
It wouldn’t bother him so much if he didn’t think that maybe there was something to it. Yeah, he had a lot of luck on his side, and a lot of very smart people that helped him win those battles, but hasn’t he succeeded on some of his own terms?
By now, he’d been staring at the papers so long, the words were jumbling together, and he could feel a headache drumming lightly at his temples. Sighing, he pushed up his glasses with his index finger and leaned back in his chair, shutting his eyes for relief.
“What, no heathens and deviants to chase?”
His lips involuntarily curved up at the sound of Ginny’s amused voice. “Not for this top Auror, no,” he said, keeping his eyes closed as he heard her shut the door.
“Perhaps tomorrow, then,” she said.
He opened his eyes to find her perched on the corner of his desk, face still ruddy with November chill. Her smooth hair fell over her cloak and caught the light, glinting gold and warming him down to the bone. “Some light reading?” she asked, crossing her legs at the knee, balanced perfectly on the desk.
“Sure, light,” he muttered, sighing heavily and rubbing his eyes behind his lenses. “Nice shoes,” he said as he caught a glimpse of her shiny black heels.
“Thought I’d take my boyfriend out for a nice dinner. He’s supposedly an Auror, have you seen him around?” she asked, voice lilting.
“No Aurors in here, apparently,” he said dryly.
Ginny rolled her eyes, reaching over to smack his arm. “Shut it, you’re an Auror, you stupid prat.”
He held up a paper, raising his brows. “Tell everyone else that.”
Her eyes gleamed sharp as knives. “Don’t tempt me. I will,” she said simply. “I’ve always wanted to hex Rita Skeeter.”
“Don’t waste your time, it doesn’t matter,” he murmured, getting up from his desk and raking his hands through his hair. “I’m ready to go.”
She looked him over carefully, mouth serious. “Harry, you know this is ridiculous, right?” she asked after a moment. “Your time will come, and then you’ll be so busy you won’t know what to do with yourself.”
“If you say so,” he said, tugging off his Auror robes and slipping on his thick coat.
“I’m going to curse you into next year if you don’t stop being so moody,” she warned, hopping off the desk and walking over to him. “It will happen. Even if you don’t believe so, I do.”
Her hands smoothed over the front of his coat, and he caught them in his hands, feeling the calluses under his fingertips. “I’m not very good with waiting, you know.”
Smiling devilishly, she tipped her mouth up to kiss him, pressing close. “Don’t I know it,” she murmured warmly into his mouth. “C’mon, feed me. I’m famished, and we’ll need the energy.”
Later, in their bedroom, she slipped off her green dress and left on the heels, hair falling over smooth freckled skin that seemed to go on forever. He felt like the luckiest bloke in the world, and he wouldn’t change a thing about it.
*
Ginny ended up being right, of course. By the new year, they’ve sent him into the field a few times, and the press shut up about him. Success began to be common to him again, but the system still seemed flawed, and he couldn’t escape the frustration he’d felt before. It left an imprint inside, a reminder of nights spent awake wondering whether he’d made the right choice.
In late January, he spent his day off reading, waiting for Ginny to get home from practice. He brought paperwork home with him, but it lay untouched for now, sitting harmlessly in his little office. Inconsistencies in the department haunted him, and he knew what it felt like to watch a system that didn’t work. He’d had plenty of that to drive him barking mad earlier in life, and he didn’t want to have that happen now, when he had so much else going for him.
While he was having his tea and watching the gray day darken into night, Ginny came in a swirl of snow and freckles, hair pulled back and eyes gleaming. “Hi,” she said cheerfully as she entered the kitchen. “How is the reading going?”
“Fine. I think I’ve decided to try and rework parts of the department at work,” he said, watching her move across the room.
She shrugged off her coat, revealing a thin cotton tee-shirt and jeans, her usual after-practice wear. “Well, send a bloke on some missions, and he thinks he’s got all the answers,” she teased.
He rolled his eyes. “I just-it needs tweaking. I’ve talked to Ron, and he agrees with me.”
“Didn’t I tell you you’d hit your stride?” she said, plopping down in the chair next to him. “Sounds exciting.”
He shrugged, tracing the line of freckles over her cheeks with his eyes. “It’ll be a slog, but worth it. How was practice?”
“Fine. I’m starting in the match on Sunday.”
He blinked, mouth slightly ajar. “Er-wait, you’re starting? What happened?”
Her smile stretched wide and bright over her face. She brushed the snow from her hair and breathed in deeply. “Smells good in here. Are you making stew? You’re so handy to have around,” she said brightly.
Huffing in exasperation, he kicked her shin under the table, and she winced, sending him a glare. “You’re starting?” he repeated, fingers curled around his warm mug.
“Christy’s pregnant. The team healer won’t let her play anymore,” she said cheerily. “They told us today, and I’ve got her Chaser spot now.”
Warmth fluttered up through his chest, and he couldn’t help his wide grin. “You’re starting. A year in, and you’re starting,” he repeated.
Still flushed, she toed off her trainers and stood, leaning over to kiss him soundly. “You’ll be there, yeah?”
He twirled his fingers in her shirt, tugging her close. “Damn, I think I’ve got to restructure a department that day,” he murmured against her mouth, tasting cinnamon and mint and Ginny.
She bit his bottom lip in response before pulling back from him. “Oh well. Next time,” she said with a sparkle in her eye.
“For sure,” he said, watching her with interest as she lazily strolled towards the doorway.
“Maybe someone can take pictures for you,” she said, fingertips playing with the hem of her shirt, showing tantalizing bits of bare skin.
Mouth going dry, he leaned back in his chair. “That would be nice,” he said, voice dropping lower in his chest.
Slanting him a knife-quick smile, she pulled off her tee and slung it over her shoulder. He could see her skin prickling into goosebumps against the cooler air, and his whole body thrummed with interest. “I’ll be upstairs making those arrangements, then,” she said lightly, turning and swaying out of sight.
Harry sat at the table just a moment more, listening to her light steps on the stairs, before he got up and followed. Her shirt lay on the stairs, and he smiled to himself, breathing in deeply. He picked up the shirt and hurried up the rest of the stairs, holding it in his fist as a reminder of what he had, and how lucky he was to have someone like Ginny to believe in him, and for him to believe in her.
*
Pen Name: tosca1390
Characters/Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Word Count: 2,550 words
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance, I suppose.
Summary: His life was parchment and ink and publicity stunts, and it wasn’t exactly what he’d thought it would be.
Song Lyrics:
Tonight you arrested my mind when you came to my defense
With a knife in the shape of your mouth
In the form of your body with the wrath of a gun
Oh, you stood by me, belief.
-"Belief", Gavin DeGraw
Disclaimer: I don't own it, I just like playing on its swing set. That's it. No copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: All right, on time, under the wire! Yes! This, undoubtedly, took a very different turn from what I thought I was writing, but I'm pleased. My interpretation of the lyrics is more of an essence, I think. I hope it's enjoyable! Thanks to the mods, for hosting this challenge!
Wind blustered through the graying trees as Harry jiggled with the door of his flat, a sure sign of the settling of autumn. But the flat was lit up and warm, and he breathed out slowly as he entered the front corridor, peeling off his cloak. It had been a rough day. Certainly, Harry had gone through worse, but there was something about the monotony of an office that drained him dry, and today had been all paperwork, all day, all evening, just as the day before that, and the week before, and so on. His life was parchment and ink and publicity stunts, and it wasn’t exactly what he’d thought it would be.
He padded quietly through the corridor, stopping in the door to the living room. Ginny lay stretched out on his sofa, eyes shut and hair splayed out bright against the black fabric. A book with pages curling at the edges perched on her chest, rising with her slow breaths, and one socked foot dangled off the edge of the cushion. It was perfectly normal, and yet he couldn’t stop the warm crowding in his ribcage, just to see her there, long and toned from near-daily Quidditch, a constant pillar of support. He wondered if he’d ever not be glad to see her.
After a few minutes of rustling around in the kitchen, he entered the living room once more, curling himself into a large, cushy chair opposite the sofa; it was red, and reminded him of his favorite chair in the Gryffindor common room. He tucked a knee onto the cushion and tucked into his day-old sweet-and-sour chicken, trying to salve away his day as the wind whistled faintly in the dark outdoors.
At her sigh, he looked up from his carton to see her watching him, a pale, freckled hand resting over the planes of the book.
“Watching me sleep, Potter?”
He smiled slightly. “Guilty.”
She wrinkled her nose and yawned. “You’re an odd one.”
“I think it’s flattering that I want to stare at you at all,” he said, chewing on his cold chicken.
“Your sentimental streak is unending,” she teased, nestling herself deeper into the sofa. “Who knew it was in you.”
He pressed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, watching her carefully. “How was practice?”
Shrugging, she drummed her fingers lazily on the book cover. “Good. Looking forward to my day off. Is it terrible to want Christy to injure herself badly enough so that I’ll be able to start a match soon, but not be permanently maimed?”
He snorted and swallowed a particularly spicy bite of chicken. “No, and you’ll start soon. You’ve only been with them a year, you’ve got time.”
“Says the top Auror in the department, at the ripe old age of twenty,” she teased.
At the mention of work, all the muscles in his writing hand seemed to cramp up in unison, but he smiled tightly. “Yeah. So says I,” he said finally, poking at his chicken.
“Bad day?” she asked.
“Normal day. Lots of paperwork. Sometimes, I think all I do is paperwork,” he said with a forced lightness, but the pressure in his chest slipped down to his middle. He thought of his desk, of the piles of parchment waiting for him, of the people who walked through the corridors for no real reason other than to catch a glimpse of him, to see him in his natural habitat, so to speak.
An odd quiet lay between them for a moment, and then she shifted on the sofa, sitting upright. Her hair was a bit tousled, and her eyes still were half-open from sleep, but the twist to her lips was all alertness. “You’re being rather cryptic, which you should know isn’t your strength,” she said lightly. “What’s the matter?”
He said nothing, merely ate another forkful of chicken. She rolled her eyes, sliding her hand through her hair. “Well, let’s guess then. You’re bored.”
At that, he nearly choked on his food, coughing as she smiled in triumph. “See, you’re not such a puzzle, Harry Potter,” she said, getting to her feet and strolling over to him. She took his carton and set it on the coffee table gently before settling herself on the arm of the chair, her feet planted lightly on his thigh. “Why are you bored?”
Making a face at her, he curled his fingers over her ankle, touching the freckles dotted there. “Paperwork is boring,” he corrected her. “My job is not.”
“Of course it is. You’re the face of the new world order, and it’s only been three years,” she said, words sharp in the air. “The Ministry doesn’t want to lose you in some silly mission.”
His gut curdled, impotence dulling his nerves. “I didn’t sign up for paperwork,” he said, thumb stroking the jutting bone of her ankle. “I wish they’d let me in the field more often.”
“You ought to tell them that,” she said, fingers slipping into the hair near his temple.
“I have,” he said tiredly, leaning into the touch.
She curled her toes against his trousers. “Well, I’ll go tell them, then.”
At that, he chuckled, looking up at her. “You do that. They’ll be falling at your feet.”
She smiled, teeth a sharp flash of white in the warm light. “My Bat-Bogey could use practice.”
“I doubt that,” he muttered, fingers stroking up her calf, under her jeans. “Used it on George last week, didn’t you?”
“Sure, but I don’t want to get rusty.” Her face lit up then, flushing prettily and arresting his attention completely. “You reckon Christy wouldn’t be able to fly with the Bat-Bogey on her? There wouldn’t be any permanent damage.”
He grinned, tugging on her leg until she took the hint and scooted into the chair, legs dangling off the sides as she sat half on him, half on the cushion. “You’ll start soon enough, Gin. You’re too good not to.”
She sighed a bit wistfully, playing with the buttons on his shirt. “It’s only that I know I’m better than Christy, and I know Gwen knows it, but it’s all politics out there.” She snorted at that, kicking her feet lightly in the air. “I went into Quidditch to escape all that political shite, and now I’m right back in it.”
He felt her pain, quite keenly, but he didn’t want to dwell right now. He’d done his share of that already. “Well, how about I go hex your bosses while you go hex mine?” he asked lightly.
“Perfect, then we’ll both be on the run together,” she teased, eyes soft and warm on his face. “Of course, it’ll be sad to leave this flat, having just moved in.”
“We’ll take the chair with us,” he said, skin thrumming as he watched the muscles in her neck.
She laughed softly, leaning into press her mouth to his, a glancing, open kiss. “That settles it. Be ready to run.”
He shut his eyes and kissed her back harder, his hand tight on her knee. As she opened her mouth to his, her fingers sliding his glasses into his spiky hair, he let himself forget the monotonous day, filling the gaping ache with her.
*
Ron was off in the field once more, and Harry felt too familiar with his office, once more. Newspapers lay out before him, headlines and paragraphs wondering why the Chosen One is hiding in the safety of the Ministry’s arms whilst the real Aurors were doing his job. Frankly, he was surprised it had taken the press so long to catch on, but now, they were coming on him in force. Rita Skeeter even went so far to say that his defeat of Voldemort was pure luck, and he wasn’t worth very much in the scheme of things, after all.
It wouldn’t bother him so much if he didn’t think that maybe there was something to it. Yeah, he had a lot of luck on his side, and a lot of very smart people that helped him win those battles, but hasn’t he succeeded on some of his own terms?
By now, he’d been staring at the papers so long, the words were jumbling together, and he could feel a headache drumming lightly at his temples. Sighing, he pushed up his glasses with his index finger and leaned back in his chair, shutting his eyes for relief.
“What, no heathens and deviants to chase?”
His lips involuntarily curved up at the sound of Ginny’s amused voice. “Not for this top Auror, no,” he said, keeping his eyes closed as he heard her shut the door.
“Perhaps tomorrow, then,” she said.
He opened his eyes to find her perched on the corner of his desk, face still ruddy with November chill. Her smooth hair fell over her cloak and caught the light, glinting gold and warming him down to the bone. “Some light reading?” she asked, crossing her legs at the knee, balanced perfectly on the desk.
“Sure, light,” he muttered, sighing heavily and rubbing his eyes behind his lenses. “Nice shoes,” he said as he caught a glimpse of her shiny black heels.
“Thought I’d take my boyfriend out for a nice dinner. He’s supposedly an Auror, have you seen him around?” she asked, voice lilting.
“No Aurors in here, apparently,” he said dryly.
Ginny rolled her eyes, reaching over to smack his arm. “Shut it, you’re an Auror, you stupid prat.”
He held up a paper, raising his brows. “Tell everyone else that.”
Her eyes gleamed sharp as knives. “Don’t tempt me. I will,” she said simply. “I’ve always wanted to hex Rita Skeeter.”
“Don’t waste your time, it doesn’t matter,” he murmured, getting up from his desk and raking his hands through his hair. “I’m ready to go.”
She looked him over carefully, mouth serious. “Harry, you know this is ridiculous, right?” she asked after a moment. “Your time will come, and then you’ll be so busy you won’t know what to do with yourself.”
“If you say so,” he said, tugging off his Auror robes and slipping on his thick coat.
“I’m going to curse you into next year if you don’t stop being so moody,” she warned, hopping off the desk and walking over to him. “It will happen. Even if you don’t believe so, I do.”
Her hands smoothed over the front of his coat, and he caught them in his hands, feeling the calluses under his fingertips. “I’m not very good with waiting, you know.”
Smiling devilishly, she tipped her mouth up to kiss him, pressing close. “Don’t I know it,” she murmured warmly into his mouth. “C’mon, feed me. I’m famished, and we’ll need the energy.”
Later, in their bedroom, she slipped off her green dress and left on the heels, hair falling over smooth freckled skin that seemed to go on forever. He felt like the luckiest bloke in the world, and he wouldn’t change a thing about it.
*
Ginny ended up being right, of course. By the new year, they’ve sent him into the field a few times, and the press shut up about him. Success began to be common to him again, but the system still seemed flawed, and he couldn’t escape the frustration he’d felt before. It left an imprint inside, a reminder of nights spent awake wondering whether he’d made the right choice.
In late January, he spent his day off reading, waiting for Ginny to get home from practice. He brought paperwork home with him, but it lay untouched for now, sitting harmlessly in his little office. Inconsistencies in the department haunted him, and he knew what it felt like to watch a system that didn’t work. He’d had plenty of that to drive him barking mad earlier in life, and he didn’t want to have that happen now, when he had so much else going for him.
While he was having his tea and watching the gray day darken into night, Ginny came in a swirl of snow and freckles, hair pulled back and eyes gleaming. “Hi,” she said cheerfully as she entered the kitchen. “How is the reading going?”
“Fine. I think I’ve decided to try and rework parts of the department at work,” he said, watching her move across the room.
She shrugged off her coat, revealing a thin cotton tee-shirt and jeans, her usual after-practice wear. “Well, send a bloke on some missions, and he thinks he’s got all the answers,” she teased.
He rolled his eyes. “I just-it needs tweaking. I’ve talked to Ron, and he agrees with me.”
“Didn’t I tell you you’d hit your stride?” she said, plopping down in the chair next to him. “Sounds exciting.”
He shrugged, tracing the line of freckles over her cheeks with his eyes. “It’ll be a slog, but worth it. How was practice?”
“Fine. I’m starting in the match on Sunday.”
He blinked, mouth slightly ajar. “Er-wait, you’re starting? What happened?”
Her smile stretched wide and bright over her face. She brushed the snow from her hair and breathed in deeply. “Smells good in here. Are you making stew? You’re so handy to have around,” she said brightly.
Huffing in exasperation, he kicked her shin under the table, and she winced, sending him a glare. “You’re starting?” he repeated, fingers curled around his warm mug.
“Christy’s pregnant. The team healer won’t let her play anymore,” she said cheerily. “They told us today, and I’ve got her Chaser spot now.”
Warmth fluttered up through his chest, and he couldn’t help his wide grin. “You’re starting. A year in, and you’re starting,” he repeated.
Still flushed, she toed off her trainers and stood, leaning over to kiss him soundly. “You’ll be there, yeah?”
He twirled his fingers in her shirt, tugging her close. “Damn, I think I’ve got to restructure a department that day,” he murmured against her mouth, tasting cinnamon and mint and Ginny.
She bit his bottom lip in response before pulling back from him. “Oh well. Next time,” she said with a sparkle in her eye.
“For sure,” he said, watching her with interest as she lazily strolled towards the doorway.
“Maybe someone can take pictures for you,” she said, fingertips playing with the hem of her shirt, showing tantalizing bits of bare skin.
Mouth going dry, he leaned back in his chair. “That would be nice,” he said, voice dropping lower in his chest.
Slanting him a knife-quick smile, she pulled off her tee and slung it over her shoulder. He could see her skin prickling into goosebumps against the cooler air, and his whole body thrummed with interest. “I’ll be upstairs making those arrangements, then,” she said lightly, turning and swaying out of sight.
Harry sat at the table just a moment more, listening to her light steps on the stairs, before he got up and followed. Her shirt lay on the stairs, and he smiled to himself, breathing in deeply. He picked up the shirt and hurried up the rest of the stairs, holding it in his fist as a reminder of what he had, and how lucky he was to have someone like Ginny to believe in him, and for him to believe in her.
*