"Fantasies and Nightmares", Angst, R
Title: Fantasies and Nightmares
Author:
akissinacrisis
Ship: Harry/Ginny
Prompt: Post-Hogwarts: The virtue of abstinence
Summary: Three Christmases in a row, Harry tries to abstain from Ginny Weasley.
Rating: R for sexual content and language; 'Adult Concepts'
Word Count: 7063
Notes: Thank you very much to
ladyg_funk for running the challenge and putting up with my late entry! (Which would only have been two weeks late had it not been for lj breaking. *growls*) And hugs for my wonderful beta
pumpkinpasty. Everything belongs to JKR.
Fantasies and Nightmares
~ Christmas, 1996 ~
Funnily enough, it was the first time Harry had ever actually had Christmas at the Burrow.
It was also the first time he’d ever stayed at the Burrow while fancying one of its inhabitants.
Of course, that was nothing special, he reasoned as he kneeled on the floor of Ron's room and continued unpacking his trunk. It was the first time he’d had Christmas without Hermione in five years and it was the first time he wouldn’t be getting a card from Sirius and it might have been the first time Ron and Hermione had been fighting over the Christmas holiday itself and it was the first time he’d had fantasies in the shower about a girl on the other side of the wall and it was the first -
Damn it! Harry groaned and gave up unpacking his trunk to bash his head against its open lid. Ginny Weasley. His best mate’s sister. His little sister. Just … just no.
Little Ginny with her quick smile and her glowing hair and her big eyes and her curvy -
No. Don’t even go there, Potter.
He returned to the unpacking of his trunk, furiously tossing robes, books and underwear out into the room, sending them flying over his own bed and hitting Ron’s, bashing into the chest of drawers and landing with loud smacks onto the floor.
She was Ron’s little sister and that was all there was to it.
*
So he abstained.
When he passed her on the landing and she offered him a cheery greeting, he abstained from trying to surreptitiously breathe in her scent. When she stood on the back of the sofa to hang paper chains above the Advent candle on the windowsill, he abstained from allowing his eyes to wander up the expanse of bare thigh he could see out of the corner of his eye. When they crossed on the narrow stairs and she smiled awkwardly, he abstained from pretending he took up more space than he did so that she would have to press herself up against him to get past. When he saw her peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink, he abstained from whispering things in her ear and ducking under his Cloak just in time to see her whirl round, face set in anger and eyes flashing with traitorous excitement. When Ron told him she was already in bed, he abstained from slipping into her room, climbing under the covers and waking her up with his mouth …
It did no good.
Unpacking the last of his things, abstinence didn’t stop him from catching a faint whisper of Ginny’s flowery scent pressed into the pages of his Transfiguration notes. Chopping carrots, abstinence didn’t stop Ginny’s hips swaying as she danced around the kitchen singing carols. Eating lunch, the abstinence of a priest wouldn’t have stopped his coughing fit at Ginny’s clean laundry being plonked down on the table by Mrs Weasley. The declarations that it had to be taken upstairs right this second and Ginny’s protests that she’d do it in a minute managed to drown out Harry’s sudden attack of poor health at her underwear - at her black lace knickers.
Abstinence didn’t stop her dropping presents and bending right over to pick them up, didn’t stop her breasts bouncing as she laughed at the twins, didn’t stop her eyes catching his across crowded rooms.
Abstinence was useless.
It wasn’t bloody well fair, he thought as he hung his stocking up on Christmas Eve and clambered into bed. She was too damn close to him - too close for comfort! Fancying someone from afar, yeah, he could handle that. He could handle fancying … Parvati, or … or, hell, he could handle fancying someone as weird as Luna if the girl wasn’t as close as Ginny was all the time - if the girl wasn’t as bloody out of bounds! Why the hell did if have to be her who made his palms sweat by talking to him, or who turned him on by crossing her legs? Why the hell did it have to be Ginny Weasley? It shouldn’t be her who was making him have all these stupid thoughts about keeping away from her, stupid thoughts about abstention, stupid thoughts about the way her thighs slid up and down her broom during Quidditch practice - he stifled a groan and buried his head in his pillow. Ron, busy with his stocking, didn’t notice.
Really, she was lucky he’d abstained from sending an owl to Dean and signing it Ginny, informing the bastard that he was dumped for failing to satisfy her needs.
*
Lying in bed on Christmas Day - well, the night now, actually - he thought of Lupin and Greyback, Draco and Snape, Scrimgeour and Percy, rhododendrons, gnomes and worms.
He thought of Ginny leaning over the table and putting her fingers in his hair.
He rolled over and decided that he wouldn’t linger on something like that. He had many things to worry about, all of which were far more important than that. He wasn’t a slave to his hormones.
He wondered what sort of weirdo got erections during Christmas dinner.
As he stifled a groan, his eyes flicked to Ron, snoring innocently in the dark, completely oblivious to the depraved thoughts of his best friend. It wasn’t fair on him, really, Harry reasoned. Ron shouldn’t have to worry about his best mate leering after his little sister.
He bit his lip and resolved to abstain from thinking perverted thoughts about the younger sibling of the bloke whose room he was sharing. It would be disgusting. And perverted. And weird. And every other word made up for creeps like him.
God, it had felt good, though.
No more! He rolled onto his back, closed his eyes, and determined that he would succeed in thinking absolutely nothing about Ginny Weasley.
He failed.
***
~ Christmas, 1997 ~
“Harry! Oh, it’s so good to see you -” Suddenly, the glimpse of a certain girl that had sunk Harry’s stomach to somewhere around his knees was obscured by the red hair and arms of Mrs Weasley.
“Um - nice to see you as well, Mrs Weasley,” he managed as he tried to draw feeling back into his ribs, awkwardly patting her on the back.
“And you’re here so early!” Mrs Weasley held him at arm’s length and beamed at him, ignoring the goings-on of the crowded kitchen around them. “I wasn’t expecting you for at least another week - oh, Hermione!” she exclaimed, catching sight of Hermione greeting Mr Weasley, laden with bags. “There you are - come here -”
As she released him, Harry found his eyes, against his will, seeking their earlier view: there she was, leaning against the sink, a real person - real! Real, solid, flesh and blood - not a vision or a dream -
She grinned at him in greeting, and then quickly turned back to whatever it was she was doing at the sink.
He swallowed. Nope, this wasn’t going to be awkward at all.
*
“Sit down, sit down! Hermione - here, let me take that -”
“Oh, no -” Hermione shot an alarmed glance at Harry and clung tighter to the parcel as they sat down in comfy armchairs. “I’d better just put it … well, I think I’ll hang onto it.”
There was a lull in the chatter of the packed living room as Mrs Weasley hovered, at a loss.
“As you wish, dear,” she said finally, settling herself on the sofa. Around the group sitting down, the noisy conversation of the room reached its previous levels. Harry tried not to fidget.
“So, how are you?” Mrs Weasley asked as Ginny plonked down next to her on the sofa. “Eating well? You’re looking particularly skinny, as always, Harry.” She eyed him beadily, reaching around for the half-knit jumper lying over the sofa arm. “I suppose cooking at your age isn’t exactly the best way to get fed - not if it’s Ron’s, anyway.”
“Something like that, Mrs Weasley,” replied Harry, attempting a grin.
“He never exactly took to cooking … and, of course, I know you’re very busy now …” she raised her eyebrows at both Harry and Hermione.
Harry decided to keep silent.
“Where’s Ron got to?” Mrs Weasley asked, returning to her knitting.
“Fred and George are showing him their latest creation, I think,” said Hermione, sitting up straighter and smiling. “They’re saying he inspired them …”
“Hmm, well, they’ve come up with a lot of new creations these last few months … they ought to be careful. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were sued by someone they’ve been getting their ‘inspiration’ from.”
“If Fred and George were stupid enough to tell me I inspired one of their products, I’d demand a cut of the profits,” Ginny broke in. “Or I’d definitely sue them. It’d serve them right.”
“Yes, well, you won’t be suing anyone, because you’re still sixteen,” Mrs Weasley replied calmly, not looking up from her knitting and missing the flash of irritation that crossed Ginny’s features. “But you three are here quite early … any particular reason?”
“We just wanted to see you,” answered Hermione. “And - well -” She glanced at Harry.
“It’s all right,” interrupted Mrs Weasley. Harry saw Ginny’s lips grow tighter again, and their eyes almost met, but he quickly looked back at Mrs Weasley. “You don’t have to tell me anything. But I am glad you’re here - particularly you, Hermione, after missing you last year.”
“Oh … um …”
“It’s alright,” continued Mrs Weasley calmly. “I don’t involve myself in my children’s romantic troubles.”
Her needles never stopped moving, but her eyes flicked to Ginny.
Harry suddenly felt very uncomfortable.
“It wasn’t -” started Hermione, now a shade of red not dissimilar to that of Ginny’s paper chains.
“It’s fine, Hermione. Don’t worry about me. These times are troubled enough without an old bag poking her nose into things she shouldn’t.” Mrs Weasley smiled to herself.
Someone needed to change the topic. Fast.
“Mrs Weasley, I needed to ask you about a cleaning charm …” gabbled Hermione.
“Is that so?” Mrs. Weasley smiled to herself again.
“Yes - is there one which -”
“Happy Christmas, Mum,” said Ron cheerfully, entering the room from behind the sofa and leaning over to kiss his mum on the cheek.
“Ron! Oh - um -” Hermione’s face had gone right back to bright red.
Harry rolled his eyes, and when his pupils were back where they should be again, he noticed Ginny doing the same thing. They grinned at each other and - shit, no, not good - he felt himself growing tense - but wait, wait: shared glances and in-jokes - they were all right. He felt himself calming down. They were things that people who were friends did. Platonically.
“Ginny - do you want to go and get the mince pies?” asked Mrs Weasley suddenly.
“Why? I’m sitting here talking -”
“Alright, dear, as long as you’re … happy …”
Mrs Weasley shifted uncomfortably and returned to her knitting; another twinge of something crossed Ginny’s face.
“Mrs Weasley - is that an Advent Candle?” asked Hermione, suddenly jumping up and crossing over to the windowsill. “We had one of those in Primary School -”
“Hey, Ginny, I’ve said hello to you already, haven’t I?” asked Ron lightly.
“Yes, very briefly, before Fred and George dragged you away for God-knows-what -”
“ - I’ve never known exactly how they work - exactly how you know how much wax is going to burn in a day, or how fast the wick goes -”
“Muggles have them? They work without magic?” Mrs Weasley’s eyebrows had disappeared into her hair.
“Oh, yes -”
“What are you so cheerful about?” Ginny asked Ron.
“The prospect of Christmas dinner,” said Harry, and then sort of wished he hadn’t because Ginny’s bright eyes flew to him and she smiled again in a way that made him think most decidedly un-platonic thoughts -
“ - I’m sure it’s just a matter of making sure there’s the perfect amount of candle for each day - you know what I mean - so that on Christmas Eve it’s all gone, all melted … I’m sure it’s quite easy if you’re a candle maker, or whatever they’re called -”
“Ron - sit down, sit down,” said Mrs Weasley, flapping her hands and interrupting Hermione. “You need to rest while you’re here - God knows what you’ll be doing when you’re back out there …”
As Ron sat down, he shot Harry a slightly alarmed look at his mother’s not-so-subtle questioning. Harry shrugged.
“I mean, you must be very busy,” continued Mrs Weasley, once more turning her attention back to her knitting. “Leaving us as suddenly as you did in the summer … we almost didn’t know what to do with ourselves …” Once again, her eyes flicked to Ginny.
Harry had to fight the urge to jump up and leave the room.
“Not that you didn’t have to go … it was perfectly alright - well, of course, a little more notice would have been appreciated, but no one’s angry with you … oh, you know what I mean.”
She continued knitting.
A glance at Ginny’s face showed that someone was very angry with someone else indeed. For once, it wasn’t anything to do with him.
*
“Sorry about that,” said Ginny, smiling at him a bit later in the relative quiet of the kitchen.
“It’s alright,” he replied, his hand going to the back of his neck. It hadn’t been that bad … not once Lupin had showed up, anyway.
“Honestly, I don’t understand why people seem to think we can’t have normal conversations together - bit insulting, isn’t it? It’s like Mum’s chaperoning - it’s like saying we’re inept twelve year olds, or something.” She leaned back casually on the sideboard and let her hair fall back from her face.
“Er … yeah, I suppose so. Um -”
“It’s just - my mum can be embarrassing sometimes.” Her cheeks were a tiny bit pink.
He laughed, or tried to, and she met his eyes and smiled again. Which was okay, completely all right, because that’s what friends did: Ron and Hermione smiled at each other and - oh, crap -
“So,” she said, cocking her head to the side, “what have you been doing for the last six months? Yeah, I know,” she interrupted before he had a chance to speak, “you won’t tell me anything important, I get it. Tell me something you can.”
“Well,” he said, trying to think of something he could say, “um … I wish I hadn’t binned all my old OWL notes, your brother’s cooking is awful … and I really, really hate hotels.”
“My brother’s cooking is the worst of your worries?” Her eyes were sparkling. “You haven’t had any dark adventures? No brushes with death?”
“Well, the odd … you know … sort of … thing - but nothing serious.”
She turned away from him and braced her hands on the sideboard. “It seems Ron’s cooking has impaired your conversational abilities, if nothing else.” She jumped up and sat herself next to the sink, twisting back round to him, leaning forward on her hands and flexing her legs. “So how’ve you been?”
“Oh … alright.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the sink.
“Not too bruised and battered?”
“No …” He met her eyes and grinned. “I’m still in one piece.”
“All in one piece, Potter?” she replied, her eyes travelling down his body.
“Um,” he said, suddenly finding it hard to speak. “Um, yes.”
Her eyes met his again. Her lips moved to speak; but then, suddenly, her eyes grew sad. She was still.
He realised that his feet had shifted backwards without his knowledge. “Maybe I should be …”
“Yes.” Shaking her head slightly, she seemed to come to herself. “Yeah, I suppose you’d better …” She tried to smile, but her attempt was aborted: a failure in the way that their conversation had been a failure.
There was a silence.
Then the disappointment in the set of her mouth, the sadness in her eyes, the awkwardness hanging between them: it was too overwhelming. Harry turned away and walked quickly out of the room.
*
Three days to Christmas. Harry was sitting at the window in the living room, staring at the night outside, while behind him raged one of the noisiest games of Exploding Snap he’d ever heard. He didn’t much fancy joining in. Hermione had shot him a mildly despairing look, but he’d ignored her.
He and Ginny had been very careful, these last few days. Lots of polite, friendly, careful conversations that didn’t last very long and didn’t stray into anything vaguely murky: nothing that would in any way imply that they had ever been more than just casual friends.
No acknowledgement of what they did last summer.
The Advent candle in front of him, so deeply admired by Hermione, was glowing against its black backdrop: warm yellow at the top, a dull cream towards the bottom, where the brightness of the flame failed to seep. The candle didn’t aid him in seeing the view outside the window clearly - all he could see was his reflection, both illuminated and ghostly against the dark outside.
What was probably the most embarrassing thing was that despite it all, he hadn’t stopped looking at her. Sneakily, though - he liked to think that he’d gotten better at it than he’d been last year, before they’d gotten together. Anyway, he had to be sneaky; surely, this time she would be watching for it.
To be honest, it wasn’t the watching, but the very things he saw that were embarrassing. Or, no, not what he saw - but what he did with what he saw.
Well, no, that wasn’t embarrassing; he’d gotten over being embarrassed about doing that to thoughts of her ages ago. No, he was wrong on both accounts - it wasn’t what he saw, or what he did: it was the very fact that the little things he did see would make him want to - make him need to - do that.
She wasn’t as … as everywhere as she’d been last Christmas. She was far more subdued now - well, they all were, maybe he was just noticing it more with her - but anyway, she wasn’t always … well, she wasn’t always flashing her legs around, or whatever.
Not that she really had been last year. He’d just been pathetic.
A drop of cream-coloured wax started to make its way down the candle, blurring the dark red numbers in its slow and steady descent. The candle had shrunk to about three quarters the size of its original height. There was still a week to go before Christmas.
But despite the fact that they were broken up, despite the fact that he was now a slightly more experienced man than he had been, despite her … subdued-ness, she was somehow managing to turn him on with every little thing that she did. Every time she stretched, every time she grinned, every time she redid her ponytail. She was driving him crazy, and the worst thing was that he had no excuse to be being driven crazy by her … not when she wasn’t doing anything, anyway.
But, Jesus! How come it had been easier to control himself last summer, when they’d actually been doing stuff in broom cupboards together, than it was now, when he could barely speak to her, let alone touch her, and couldn’t see more of her than a jumper allowed?
Oh, God, it was all so pathetic. He’d accidentally bump into her on the stairs (this year, of course, this was always happening), it would be awkward, she’d apologise, he’d apologise, and then he’d go and have a wank.
At least when he did that last summer, it was because he’d just spent lunchtime with his hand up her skirt.
Christ. It felt like he was going backwards.
And all their careful and tame conversations weren’t helping - in fact, they were making him more frustrated than ever.
The drop of wax hit the bottom of the candle and joined the hardening pool surrounding it. The dark red numbers that it had blazed over, the markings representing the days he had left - 17, 18, 19 - seemed untouched.
He had been desperate to come here for Christmas. Now, he was torn between being thankful that his wish had been granted, and wishing the days would go just a bit faster.
*
“Will you do that for me, Harry? Thanks, dear,” Mrs Weasley said at his nod, frantic eyes darting across the attic, before turning back to the many unwrapped presents she’d hidden from her children’s prying eyes.
He turned and pounded down the stairs, down into the kitchen, to where he’d last seen it -
Oh.
“Um, Ginny?”
She glanced up at him. “Oh, hey, Harry,” she said, fixing her concentration back on the parcel she was Spellotaping at the kitchen table.
“Um -”
“Bugger!” she interrupted, as the tape she was fiddling with stuck together. He watched, fascinated, as her fingers struggled in vain to stop it from clumping together into a ball, before she tossed it aside and ripped off some more, attacking the parcel afresh.
“Yes?” she asked as her fingers folded and turned and pressed.
“Er - why aren’t you, y’know, spelling it?”
“Because it’s last year’s and it doesn’t work properly.”
“Oh.”
She finished the present, and he drifted closer to the table as she reached for another one - a jumper - as the Spellotape on the previous one made a pitiable attempt at blending away. “What are you here for?”
“Er …” said Harry, startled, and then, remembering, “Your mum. Sent me to get wrapping paper, I mean. Have you finished with it?”
“No, but here’s a roll I’m not going to use,” she said, picking up a spare roll and dropping it in his arms, masterfully managing not to make any contact with his body whatsoever. “D’you need any more?”
“Er - yeah, actually, I do.”
She looked at him oddly, and then returned to the jumper.
Shit. He did not mean to say that.
“Well,” she said, brow furrowed as she attempted to fold the jumper neatly, “you’re going to have to stay here and wait for the leftovers.”
He nodded, but he didn’t think she saw. Quiet fell, prevented from becoming silence by only the rustle of the paper, as her hands attempted to force it into doing her bidding. She got the scissors out to cut a straight line, and bit her bottom lip in concentration.
He shifted. “Who’s the jumper for?”
“What? Oh, my uncle Alfred … Mum knitted it …”
She leant over slightly, and a few strands of red hair escaped from her messy bun, falling forwards to gently touch her cheek.
Silence fell again, but her scissors weren’t moving.
“Harry, don’t bother waiting,” she said. “I’ll take the rest up when I’m finished -”
“No!” he blurted, and then felt stupid. “Erm, no, you can’t do that - because … because you’ll see your presents. All of you lot will your presents - that’s why your mum made me do it.”
She paused; then, without her eyes leaving the present, she nodded.
As her scissors resumed slicing through the paper, his eyes drifted to her hair. Tied up like that, he could see the back of her pale neck. If he just lightly touched her there, would she … did she like being touched there? He couldn’t remember - it was alarming what he couldn’t remember. He wondered if she’d untie it and it would all come tumbling down, the bright waves leaping down her back -
“Oh, for the love of - bugger!” His eyes darted to her hands; she’d messed up the Spellotape again and managed to get it stuck all over her fingers, trapping them together. As she fought to pull it off, he had the thought that he should perhaps offer, gallantly and without thinking of the consequences, to help her, and she would say No, it’s fine, although clearly it wouldn’t be, so he’d say Let me in a low voice … and she would reluctantly let him pull it off her, freeing her fingers, and in the silence, their hands would be the only things moving … gently touching each other … and they would both spend an inordinately long time trying to get the tape off, although neither of them would mention it, and then their eyes would meet … and their lips would be really close, and then her eyes would slide shut and she’d murmur Oh, Harry -
She’d gotten all the tape off. Crumpling it into a ball, she threw it on the ground and once more turned her attention back to the half-wrapped present, her eyes fierce.
“Stupid thing,” she muttered, and bent over the table once more.
Her sweater rode up, just exposing her bare hips.
It was Harry’s turn to bite his lip.
He looked away quickly, eyes glancing over the clock on the wall, the half-prepared food on the sideboard, the snowy view from the window - anything but her. He was standing far too close to her … he had probably got this close when he was perusing her neck - God, he was going mad … he had to concentrate on something else. She was muttering more swear words, but he didn’t look at her: she was still leaning over the table, and he knew from past experience that that never led to anything good.
He thought he caught the scent of something Christmassy - that Christmas smell, oranges and spices, or something … he wondered where it was coming from. He thought it might be from the right … he looked that way, towards Ginny - and then he realised that the smell was Ginny.
“You’ve changed your perfume,” he blurted.
She froze. Turning to look at him and straightening up, she opened her mouth. Then she closed it again.
There was a silence.
“Um … not that it’s … um … my business … but - but you …”
Her expression was unreadable.
Oh, Christ. What had he done?
Once more, there was a silence.
“I have to go,” he said, and holding his roll of wrapping paper, he turned and ran from the room.
*
Walking up the stairs to Ron’s room on Christmas Eve, Harry was feeling quite cheerful. Christmas was almost here, and while the extended holiday hadn’t been that great, the day itself was always something to look forward to. And anyway, he was sure he was underestimating the goodness of the weeks he’d spent here. They had probably been really beneficial to his health, or something. It was his own fault for ruining it by fussing about Ginny.
While the incident with Ginny and the wrapping paper of a few days ago had not been their finest moment, as moments between broken-up couples went, it hadn’t been too awkward since … well, they’d smiled at each other a bit, so it couldn’t have been that bad. No, overall, he was feeling good: feeling right with the world.
The fact that they were very soon to leave this house had nothing to do with it. His life wasn’t completely ruled by Ginny Weasley.
But now, he was facing a dilemma. When to leave? It was going to have to be soon, and he himself wasn’t feeling averse to that particular plan, only … well, a few more days wouldn’t hurt. He knew Ron wanted to spend some more time with his family. He knew Hermione was enjoying the atmosphere and was for once not making herself ill with stress. He knew that all three of them were appreciating the three square meals a day.
Besides, he had a feeling that after Christmas, it would get easier with Ginny - his feelings would lessen in their intensity, and he would be able to really enjoy the time off.
Christmas solved everything.
Passing Ginny’s slightly open bedroom door, Harry automatically glanced through the gap.
Then he stopped.
She was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, knees up and legs bare. Her curtains were open, and the room dark; the dim moonlight filtering through the window was the only thing illuminating her blurred form, making her look almost ghostly. Her head was leaning back, her eyes closed, her hair loose on her shoulders. One of her arms was lying on the floor beside her, and the one closest to him was resting on her lap … he couldn’t see where her hand was.
Then she started to move, and he was suddenly all too aware of where her hand was.
She made no noise. Her skirt fell further up her leg, exposing more bare thigh, as her hand - those fingers - kept on moving. The palm of her other hand was pressed into the floor, her expression approaching something like pain.
He couldn’t move.
Suddenly, her body gave a small jerk and her back arched upwards, pressing her breasts against her shirt. Her hand scrabbled for a grip in the carpet, and a bead of sweat started to make its way down her face. Her hips jolted again, but her fingers never stopped moving. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, and the bead of sweat slipped swiftly inside her mouth. She bit her lower lip.
He turned and ran. Sprinted up the hall, round the corner and up the stairs as fast as he could - where? The bathroom? Ron’s room? Ron’s room - please let Ron be somewhere else … Please, oh God, please don’t let her have heard his footsteps …
What had he just seen? Why did he just stand there and watch it? Why the hell wasn’t he still watching?
As he raced up the stairs and prayed for Ron’s room to be empty, he knew only one thing for certain: they were definitely leaving on Boxing Day.
***
~ Christmas, 1998 ~
It was cold in the Burrow’s kitchen.
Harry had an odd, abstract desire to get up, cross to the window and shut it, protect these people from the December chill - but he didn’t think they wanted that.
It wouldn’t help them. It would only grant his own wish to do something useful, give him something to congratulate himself about, and he would not give in to that. This was nothing to do with him.
In the flickering candlelight, Hermione caught his eye from across the table; but she quickly looked away.
He clenched his hands together, in the hope that if he looked more anxious, his mind would be relieved, and he could perhaps think clearer thoughts.
It would be just like before. It had been almost like this last time - although Sirius’ attempts to make everyone drink Butterbeer in a dark kitchen three years ago truly did seem as if from another life.
Arthur wasn’t going to die.
Ron was staring at the centre of the table. Fred’s head was hanging back, his eyes closed. Fleur had Bill’s hand clasped in hers. Ginny was staring, unseeing, out of the window.
They sat in silence as the seconds ticked closer to midnight. Closer to Christmas Eve.
There was no Christmas tree in the house, no presents; this year, there were none of Ginny’s paper chains. For the Wizarding World, Christmas was getting harder to celebrate.
The room was lit only by candles: on the sideboard, the table, the windowsill. There were satsumas scattered around, and a saucepan of half-peeled Brussels sprouts rested on top of the oven. On the table itself was Harry’s old friend the Advent Candle: it seemed that Christmas, although smaller, was still stubbornly present in one room of the house.
Or it had been, until earlier.
There was a noise outside, and everyone at the table jumped, some reaching for their wands; but then Tonks’ hair became visible through the window. Charlie leapt up and opened the back door, and then suddenly she was standing in the door frame.
“Molly wants you to come now,” she said, and the Weasley children rose and followed her out into the dark.
Harry and Hermione stayed seated. Fleur gave them a last glance, torn between confusion and reproach, before following her husband.
The cracks of Apparition shot through the night, and Harry and Hermione were left alone at the kitchen table. The glow of the candles was harsh; Harry shut his eyes.
Five minutes later, he heard a light, jarring clatter ring through the stillness of the room. He didn’t need his eyes or Hermione’s strangled noise to tell him what had just fallen off of the Weasley family clock.
*
It was the next evening, in the corridor outside her bedroom, that he came face to face with Ginny Weasley, daughter of Molly and Arthur, sister of Ron, owner of the laugh he had tried to forget and the body he had tried to memorise.
For a split second, he wondered whether to say something or to just go for the tired nod - he’d been dealing with this all day and he still didn’t know what to do - but before he’d really made a decision his lips had started to move. “Ginny -”
“Hey,” she said with a small smile, leaning against the white-painted wooden entry to her bedroom, arms folded.
She was up and dressed, at least, he thought. Which was more than could be said for Ron.
She didn’t look as tired as the others, either; but then, Ginny always looked healthy. Even now, she managed to look as if she had spent the last twenty-four hours sleeping soundly.
“Do you want to come in?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, although it didn’t seem he had much choice in the matter, as his feet had already started moving at the question. They seemed to be relieved at having an order to follow.
He followed her into her bedroom, and then she turned around to face him and he stopped. They were very close; she reached up over his shoulder to press the door shut behind him. For a second, two, three, her palm flat on the closed door, they were still. His eyes dropped to her lips, but there was a lifetime of holding back between them and he looked away, his eyes sliding sideways over the faded wallpaper. She stepped back, and then (he thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, her gaze flicking over his face) she turned away and walked over to the other side of the room.
He wandered over to the window at the foot of her bed, and stared out at the snowy landscape, invisible in the darkness.
He didn’t know what was going to happen, what she wanted to happen. When was the last time they had even spoken to each other? It must have been something awkward over the summer … Or maybe it was last Christmas … Now, he didn’t know what she wanted. What he wanted.
“You know, we can do it if you want.”
He opened his mouth to respond, and then her words sunk in, and he spun around to face her.
She blinked at him innocently, ratty hair in a ponytail, hands in the pockets of her jeans.
“What?”
“I said,” she repeated, “we can do it if you want.”
He stared at her.
“Isn’t that why you followed me in here?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him by making some sort of noise of disgust, and reaching for the bottom of her jumper. “Don’t worry. Comfort sex is supposed to be good for you.” She pulled her jumper up over her head to reveal her shirt.
“Ginny!”
“What?” Her face, framed by tangled strands of hair, emerged from the jumper. “Don’t you want to?”
“I - we can’t! We -”
“Of course we can. It’s expected of us.”
“Gin, think about it -”
“Oh, don’t be such a twat, Harry.” She gave him a look and dropped her jumper on the floor. “Why else did you come in here? Of course, you and me - who else? It would’ve happened anyway -”
“Gin -”
“It probably would have,” she glared at him, eyes flashing, “so maybe we should get it out of the way before it happens when we’re both … when we’re both married to other people, or something - now’s a perfectly acceptable time -”
“What?”
“It’s a perfectly good time, stop being such a dick about it -”
“Okay, the one thing I am not being is a - what, ‘good time’? God, Ginny -”
“Look, oh saintly one, I’m the daughter in mourning here, so we should really be doing what I want - and what you really want - you want to do too, if you’d only - wow, Harry! Look! I’m half an orphan, almost like you! If you’d only -”
“Ginny!” He took a step towards her, unsure of what to do. “Don’t -”
“Look,” she said again, and then she closed her eyes. He thought about saying something, but then she opened them and, her breathing calmer, looked him straight in the eye. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to.” Her fingers went to the top button of her shirt.
“Ginny -”
Her hands slipped onto the next button, exposing her cleavage. “You know this is what we’re supposed to be doing.”
“I - Gin …”
“Stop being stupid. You won’t be missed.”
“I …”
“I’m on the potion now. That’s why my boobs are bigger. You’ve probably noticed.”
“Ginny!”
She looked up at him. “Are you going to stand there saying my name all night or are you going to come and help me?”
“Ginny!” he exploded, “you - can’t!” His gripped her shoulders tightly. “I know that you’re … that maybe you think that you … we just can’t, alright?” he finished, breathing heavily, trying to ignore the pounding in his head and the throbbing in his jeans.
Ginny looked up into his eyes.
“Please, Harry, will you just put your hands on my waist and kiss me?”
“No! We’re not - it’s not right, okay? We can’t do this! When, alright, when we make love -”
“Make love?” She was looking at him with a confusion that almost broached contempt, her hands frozen on her buttons. “No one’s asking you to … I mean, Harry, you and me could never have made love … you may think that this - this - this has ruined any chance for us, but you and I were never capable of … nothing we ever did could ever have been pure and wholesome and perfect … I mean, there’s always going to be something in the way, something corrupting us - before, before, you would have been doing the sister of your best mate and now - now you’re just fucking the girl whose dad died in a war that you haven’t finished yet -”
“Ginny!”
She wriggled out of his grasp. “It’s just sex, Harry! It’s not wonderful and right, not for you and me, it couldn’t ever have been. So stop the … stop the stupid stupid bullshit and get the fact that it’s going to be crap and then just - make love! As if you and I were capable of - as if you and I were worthy of … Make love - my parents make love! My parents - made love, it’s something they did, not something we could ever …”
“Ginny …” He found his hands gripping her shoulders again. “Please … please … you know we can’t …”
“Oh, fuck this.” She twisted out of his grasp, swooped down to pick up her jumper, and slipped her feet into her shoes. “I’m going out.”
“Where are you going?” he asked in a panic as she marched towards the door.
“To go and find Dean or Colin or Draco fucking Malfoy for all I care -”
He strode over to her, put his hands on her waist, and kissed her.
Well, he grabbed her, really. He was too far away and it had been too long bloody long for that kiss to have been anything approaching gentle.
He felt her drop the jumper to the floor and her hands were in his collar and she might possibly have murmured something but he didn’t hear because by then he’d backed her up against the door …
He was kissing her a lot more ferociously than he would’ve imagined, a lot more ferociously than he would have liked - oh, who was he kidding, he was kissing her like this because this was Ginny and God he had missed her so much and he was going to kiss her any damn way he pleased … and if her hands and her tongue were any indication, she had missed him just as much …
He suddenly remembered what she’d been doing with her buttons moments before and - God!
“So,” she gasped, “will you -?”
He groaned in answer, pushing her further into the wall and kissing her again, “I don’t know … Oh, God, Gin, I don’t know …”
“Harry,” she whispered, and for the first time in - years - her voice sounded fragile and afraid, “we don’t - have to … but I think you might need it more than I do.”
He could only growl his assent as he wound his hand into that tight, fiery ponytail and felt the whole day washing over him and out of him …
As they pushed and pulled each other towards the bed in that dark room, as Ginny fought to kick her trainers off and Harry dropped his glasses, the house grew silent around them.
As Harry buried his face in Ginny’s hair and fought to keep the tears in, as Ginny held onto him tightly, stared up at the ceiling and tried to force them out, Hermione sat on Ron’s bed with her hand on a shoulder and felt nothing but unresponsive muscle.
As wands were grabbed and tossed away, all the necessary spells cast, beams of light rebounding around the room frantically, Mrs Weasley sat by her bedroom window and wondered where her family had gone.
As the last items of clothing puddled onto the floor, midnight struck; the last remnants of Advent dissolved onto the kitchen table, and the candle gave itself up to the inevitable and melted away into the night.
***
Reviews will be much appreciated.