'The Covenant', Harry/Ginny, 12+ (sequel to 'Tread Softly')
Title: The Covenant
Ship: Harry/Ginny
Summary: Then, he got her brother killed. Now, he’s being an idiot. She’s never going to take him back. Set two months after the end of Tread Softly.
Rating: 12+
Word Count: ~5500
Disclaimer: JKR’s, not mine.
Notes: I didn't mean to write this. But I saw the quote it starts with and I couldn’t resist. Thank yous to Mingle whose beta defined awesome. This is dedicated to Diana, because Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice/ To make dreams truths, and also because virginity’s nothing; you can lose it riding a bicycle. Comments are of course ♥
The Covenant
In dreams begin responsibility.
~ W. B. Yeats
Bread.
I.
Harry fucks it all up on a Thursday night in June.
They eat fish in the evening in The Burrow’s kitchen: Hermione cooked it, but contrary to Ron’s predictions, the meal is more than passable. Their numbers are depleted, for Mr and Mrs Weasley are visiting Aunt Muriel, but despite this, or perhaps because of it, the five of them are in high spirits. The virginal white haddock emits wafts of ghostly steam from where it sits in pride of place in the middle of the kitchen table; with Harry’s grudging permission, the last of the bluebells have been gathered up and arranged in an old jam jar and placed beside it.
‘What happened to the cod?’ asks Ron as Hermione hands out plates.
‘You can’t eat cod anymore; it’s endangered,’ she says as she sits down at the table smugly.
‘Cod’s not endangered,’ Ginny snorts. ‘Pass the potatoes.’
‘Yes it is.’
‘How come?’
‘Icelandic cod are leaving British waters. The water’s too hot.’
‘Why’s that?’ asks George.
‘Global warming.’
‘What’s global warming?’ asks Harry.
Disappointment fills Hermione’s face. ‘I explained it to you last week!’
‘Oh.’ Harry swallows. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s -’
‘Oh, no,’ breaks in Ron with an expression of horror, ‘not the global whatsit again -’
‘Oh, I have this book,’ exclaims Hermione, ‘I bought it with my staff discount - it explains the issue in relation to the wizarding world, it’s really fascinating - I could go and get it if you like -’
‘No, Hermione,’ Ron says firmly. ‘No books at dinner. And no global warnings. My brain can’t take it this late at night. Pass the bread, Harry.’
‘Oh, fine, then,’ says Hermione. ‘Find something else to talk about.’
‘All right then,’ says Harry, sawing off a chunk of bread from the loaf for Ron. ‘George - how’s Alice?’
‘Alice?’ asks Ron with a furrowed face. ‘The paper shop girl? What about her?’
‘Oh,’ says Harry with a grin, reaching for the butter, ‘just that I saw her leaving George’s room at about four in the morning last week.’
This is not technically true - what actually happened was that Harry was sitting in the kitchen, enjoying his insomniac’s cup of tea, when he heard soft, feminine footsteps creeping their way down the stairs and out the front door - but the colour of George’s ears suggests that his suspicions are correct.
Ron’s eyes narrow. ‘George …?’
George shrugs, leans back in his chair and raises his hands helplessly. ‘What can I say? I’m irresistible.’
Ginny makes a noise of outrage and thumps him. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘How long has this been going on for?’ asks Hermione.
‘I don’t believe it,’ says Ron. ‘She’s way out of your league, she’s gorg-’ Hermione clears her throat. ‘Er - I mean - er, she has some qualities -’
‘Don’t believe it if you don’t want to,’ says George with a cocky grin. ‘But if the Boy-Who-Lived himself saw it -’
‘Well, heard it, to be honest -’
‘Oh, Harry, we’re eating,’ says Hermione with a wrinkled nose.
‘No, not like that - I mean I heard her footsteps, as she was leaving -’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Ron says again, and turns to Harry. ‘Is it true?’
‘It’s true,’ Harry says. ‘Although, of course,’ he adds thoughtfully, ‘she could have been running from his room -’
‘Wanker,’ George says, chucking a roast potato at his head.
II.
He doesn’t dream about her much, anymore.
Of course, the occasional stray thought or unsought fantasy rambles across and into his mind - but on the whole, he rarely thinks about his ex-girlfriend of two years.
Anyway, the odd daydream is only healthy, Harry reckons.
Even if things have changed a little bit in the last couple of months since she started laughing again and since he saw her eating that yoghurt -
But overall, he doesn’t really think about her.
III.
He wants her so much. He wants to wake up to see her sitting on the edge of his bed. He wants a ducked head and a slow, shy smile and shadows falling across her collarbone. He wants her arms and her bright orange hair and her smooth white legs wrapped tightly around his waist and he wants them now, right here on this table -
‘Harry? The bread?’ asks Ron, and he jumps.
IV.
That night, when everything has been cleared away, when Ron and Hermione have been left to ‘say goodnight’ in the hall, when George has given them all a wink and headed off for the village, when Harry has brushed his teeth and climbed into bed and lain for hours, trying to sleep, it happens.
She glides into his room, threadbare pyjamas glowing white like the haddock, and ignoring his stutters, she lifts his covers and slides her way onto his mattress.
Percy’s old bed is only a single; he has to scrunch himself up against the wall to avoid touching her.
He tries to think of something nonchalant to say.
Carefully, he twists around to face her. ‘Is that you?’ he asks.
‘It’s me,’ she says. Taking his wand hand, she places it on the warm skin of her hip. ‘But you mustn’t say a word.’
V.
Hours later: ‘Stay with me,’ he whispers through the dark, sweaty air. ‘Sleep here.’ I want to see you in the morning.
‘Of course,’ she soothes.
‘Really?’
After a pause, ‘I promise.’
VI.
He wakes with a start in the early hours: the room is dark and hot and his white sheets are stuck to his thighs.
There is not even an imprint. No smell, no taste, no shape in the bedclothes.
It was a dream. They didn’t really do that.
Thank God.
He falls back to sleep.
VII.
Across the table from him at breakfast, a blood-purple, wine-red condemnation blooms on her neck.
Wine.
I.
‘You must stop fussing over her,’ Hermione says three days later.
Over the last three days, Harry has prepared Ginny’s lunch twice, twice recommended that she put a cardigan on because it’s getting a bit nippy, and once brought her breakfast in bed. Hardly excessive.
On the other hand, he only brought her breakfast up to her once because when he did it she threatened to hex him.
‘I’m not fussing,’ he says.
‘Look,’ says Hermione as she washes out a jug at the sink and refills it with pumpkin juice, ‘I know she can be a bit snappy nowadays, and I know she hasn’t dealt with the end of the war and Fred the way everyone else has; but you’ve got to see, Harry, that you fussing over her making sandwiches isn’t going to make her snap out of it.’
‘That wasn’t what - I’m not -’ He grabs some glasses and places them on the sideboard so he doesn’t have to look at her. ‘I’m just trying to be nice! I’m just trying to - just trying to -’
‘Get back together with her?’ Hermione’s eyes on him in the empty kitchen are sharp.
He pours pumpkin juice into one of the glasses. ‘I haven’t made any moves on her.’
‘Do you still feel guilty about Fred?’
The pulpy juice builds a cylindrical tower of pink-orange. ‘How do you know I ever felt guilty?’
‘I’ve known you quite a long time, you know,’ she says softly.
The glass is full; he sets down the jug.
‘No one blames you,’ she says.
He stares at the jug. ‘They did.’
‘They never meant to. And they don’t anymore.’
‘She still does.’
Hermione says nothing.
Harry turns his back on the pumpkin juice and, folding his arms, leans back against the sideboard. ‘She’s never going to forgive me.’
‘Harry,’ Hermione says, putting a hand on his elbow, ‘this is Ginny’s problem, not yours. You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s all her.’
His throat is dry; he needs a drink.
‘This is her problem, and no amount of sandwiches with the crusts cut off is going to change tha-’
‘OK,’ he says, because that’s an allegation that he needs defending against, ‘I never cut the crusts off anything -’
‘Harry.’ Hermione traps him with her gaze. ‘She is not your responsibility.’
II.
The garden needs weeding.
As he works, Ginny sits by him on the wooden fence and stares off into the distance. She started doing this about a month ago, and she’s still doing it, he supposes, because nothing between them has changed. Apparently.
He wrenches out one of the weeds rather viciously.
He pushes his hair out his eyes and glances up. She’s wearing a T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. He bites his tongue and doesn’t make any comments about cardigans.
Apparently, things are exactly the same between them as they always have been; apart from the fact that he now can’t say anything at all without seeming desperate. When she started coming outside to sit with him while he worked, he used to ask her occasionally if she wanted to help; if he tried that now, it would seem like he’s trying to get back into her knickers.
He swears under his breath as he discovers a clump of weeds strangling his rosemary.
Maybe he shouldn’t feel responsible, but Harry finds it hard to see how sleeping with someone who doesn’t understand that grief is supposed to go in stages rather than a never-ending cycle is anything but taking advantage.
As he sets to work on the bush, the corner of his eye sees her jumping down from the fence; he looks up just in time to catch her jagging her leg on a rusty nail. As she clutches at the cut a stream of swearwords gushes from her throat almost as thickly as the soft, slow blood seeping down her leg.
He conjures a rag out of the air, crawls over to her and presses it to her calf.
‘Here,’ he says, lifting his wand with his left hand while trying to squeeze with his right without making it seem like he’s squeezing her leg. ‘I can close it -’
‘Don’t,’ she mutters through gritted teeth. ‘Leave it.’
He dabs at the cut gently, not asking why she wants to keep it. He doesn’t ask questions anymore; not ones he knows the answer to, anyway.
After a moment, she touches his hand lightly; he moves it out of the way. She peers at the cut. ‘It’s stopped bleeding,’ she says.
As he washes the blood from his hands at the kitchen sink, he hopes that was genuinely helpful.
III.
He supposes that if he ever thought about it, he had an image of Ginny as the carer in their relationship. He’d be the one running out to battle; she’d be standing at the door in an apron holding a plate of biscuits.
Funny, how things work out.
IV.
Ginny is sitting on the living room sofa in front of the fire, hugging a cushion. There’s no one else around; maybe they can talk. Harry sits down next to her.
Her face is twisted up in pain.
Harry has become very good at anticipating Ginny’s upsets, but right now, he doesn’t know what the problem is. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ she says, not looking at him.
‘Ginny -’
‘Period pain.’
Ginny has periods?
Of course she does, idiot.
She shifts on the sofa, slightly irritably.
Blood. Yuck.
I should be saying something.
What if it leaks? Onto the sofa?
‘It’s not contagious, Harry,’ she snaps.
‘I - I know,’ he stutters.
There isn’t much he can do for this one; not that he understands these things that well, to be honest.
The best thing to do is probably to back away slowly.
And so slowly, he gets up and walks towards the door. ‘I’ll, er, see you later …’ he says.
Pathetic, even by his standards.
In the hall, he almost walks into Hermione.
‘Is Ginny in there?’ she asks brightly.
‘Er,’ he says. ‘Yes.’
Hermione peers at him closely. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing!’
‘Is it Ginny?’
‘No - er - she’s a bit … you know …’
‘No, I don’t know.’
‘You know,’ Harry says. ‘She’s got …’ He waves his hand at his stomach.
‘Got what?’
‘Her …’ Harry waves his hand around more violently. ‘Her thing.’
Hermione’s eyebrows rise with realization and her lips purse. ‘It’s not a disease.’
Stop saying that.
‘It happens to every girl.’
It’s still disgusting.
‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’ he asks.
‘Did she ask to be left alone?’
‘Well, not exactly, but …’
‘But?’
‘But, I don’t know what to …’ He tails off; Hermione’s eyes are narrowing. Always a danger sign.
‘You’re just going to leave her alone because you’re scared of the fact that she’s a girl?’ she demands.
‘She’s not my responsibility,’ whispers Harry with vehemence. ‘Remember?’
‘So suddenly you’re not fussing over her anymore?’
‘I was never fussing! I just don’t know how to help her. And anyway,’ he adds angrily, ‘I don’t want to help her.’
She gets halfway to doing another pointed eyebrow-raise, but seemingly thinking of better of it, or giving up on the hopeless case in front of her, she rolls her eyes and with a sigh turns towards the living room door.
‘I’ll see you later,’ he says glumly to her shoulder. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’
‘They’re training new people; they gave me the day off,’ she says, hand on the doorknob. ‘I was meant to be helping Ron flat-hunt, but he’s changed his mind about moving out again. You know what he’s like.’
Harry walks off towards the stairs. He could ask her whether she’s intending to live in this flat with Ron, or whether they’re all supposed to be moving in together, but those two are not the ones he feels like helping right now.
As he puts his foot on the bottom stair, she speaks. ‘Pain Relief Potion and a hot water bottle.’ She does not look around. ‘The bottle’s in her room.’
V.
When Harry, Ron and George get home from their favourite of the village’s pubs on a Tuesday night, they are very drunk.
‘Dance with me,’ Ron commands as George shuts the back door behind them, so Harry clasps Ron’s hands and allows himself to be whirled around the kitchen in something approaching a tango.
‘Poofs,’ says George, sitting down at the table and lighting candles with messy flicks of his wand.
‘And proud of it,’ says Ron. With a thud, Harry is deposited in a chair; Ron throws himself into the one next to it.
‘I don’t see why you two don’t just get married.’ George Summons a bottle of Firewhiskey from a cupboard. ‘Make it legal and put an end to the rumours.’
‘You’re just jealous,’ says Ron airily. ‘You want him all for yourself.’
George’s mouth moves with mirth but the candle-flames are reflected in his dark eyes and Harry knows that George is jealous because last year George would have been the one doing the tango.
‘I don’t fancy Ron,’ says Harry.
‘Harry?’
‘What?’ Harry turns to see Ron’s face very close to his and then he can’t see anything because there’s a hand on the back of his head and his glasses have been mashed into someone else’s brow and there are wet lips pressed up very tightly -
‘Eurgh, that’s gross,’ Harry says, shoving at Ron’s shoulders and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand amid gales of laughter from the two brothers, ‘that’s gross, eurgh, I think I’m going to be sick -’
‘It’s a good thing you feel that way, I suppose,’ Ron says with a giggle, leaning back in his chair. ‘My fiancée might get jealous.’
Harry nods fervently. ‘A very good thing.’ And then he changes from hearing to listening. ‘Your what?’
Ron grins. ‘My fiancée.’
‘Your what?’ Harry shrieks.
The grin grows by an inch.
Slowly, George lowers his half-raised bottle back to the table. ‘I don’t think he’s joking.’
‘But - what?’
‘Congratulations, Ron, that’s brilliant,’ says Ron, staring up at the ceiling with his moon-grin. ‘And yes, I was the one that asked, thanks for asking.’
‘And she said yes?’ asks George.
‘You proposed?’
‘Yep.’ Ron nods. ‘With a ring and everything.’
‘With a ring? And you didn’t tell me?’
‘You’ve lost it,’ says George in awe. ‘You and her’ve lost it.’
‘You’re getting married?’
Ron scowls. ‘When are you going to stop asking stupid questions?’
‘But - I thought you were both going back to Hogwarts,’ says Harry.
Ron shrugs; the dreamy smile returns. ‘We’re not getting married right away.’
‘But -’
‘What’s going on?’
Hermione is standing at the door to the stairs in her nightdress.
Her ‘How drunk are -’ is swallowed by Harry’s yelp as he throws himself across the room and grabs her left hand.
The jewel glitters.
‘Oh my God,’ he says.
‘Oh,’ says Hermione with a blush. She rounds on Ron. ‘You weren’t supposed to tell anyone!’
‘There’s a diamond and everything,’ Harry says at the twinkling thing.
George raises his eyebrows. ‘The world’s smallest diamond.’
Ron’s ears go red. ‘Fuck off.’
‘Yes,’ says Hermione, pulling her hand out of Harry’s and tidily folding her arms, ‘fuck off, George.’
Ron bursts out laughing.
‘What have you done to her?’ cries George.
Harry looks up into Hermione’s eyes.
With a slightly embarrassed smile, she shrugs one of her shoulders.
‘Congratulations,’ Harry says, and she throws her arms around his neck.
‘Oh, so I don’t get a congratulations, but all she has to do is swear at my brother -’
‘Do you have to be quite so noisy?’ snaps Ginny, stomping into the kitchen with her arms and face folded in a frown. ‘You woke me up.’
‘Oh, sorry, Ginny,’ says Hermione, letting go of Harry and wiping her eyes, ‘I was still awake when they came in; I came downstairs to tell them to be quiet -’
‘Did you know about this?’ Harry demands, turning to Ginny and grabbing Hermione’s hand again.
‘Know about what?’ she says, looking down at the hand that’s been thrust in her face.
Harry waits for her judgement.
‘Wow,’ she says after a second. ‘That’s … wow. That’s …’ She looks up. ‘Quite something to keep quiet about at a girly sleepover.’
He breathes.
‘I’m sorry, Ginny,’ says Hermione with another helpless smile, before shooting her fiancé a look. ‘I thought we weren’t telling people.’
‘They bullied it out of me,’ says Ron with an outstretched arm. ‘Come and sit.’
‘“Harry, I have to stop snogging you now because my fiancée might find out” - I wouldn’t quite call it bullying,’ says George.
‘What?’ cries Hermione as Ron pulls her onto his lap. ‘What?’
‘What can I say?’ says Ron with a grin, wrapping his arm around her. ‘I’m irresistible - ow!’
‘My line,’ says George, evidently the perpetrator of a swift under-the-table kick, ‘don’t steal it. Yeah, Hermione,’ he adds, leaning back in his chair, ‘you’ve missed a whole lot of boy-on-boy action.’
‘What - what happened?’
‘Harry started something he couldn’t finish,’ says Ron with a shrug. He looks up at Harry. ‘Has no one told you about the seductive powers of dance?
‘Harry was dancing for you?’ asks Hermione.
‘No, I was dancing with him. The tango, specifically. And then,’ Ron says proudly, ‘I kissed him.’
‘What?’ she shrieks again. ‘You kissed Harry?’
‘Right on the lips,’ says George, shaking his head. ‘Poor Harry.’
‘I keep being molested by Weasleys,’ Harry says with a long-suffering sigh intended to amuse only himself, for everyone has now left him by the door and is sitting at the table.
And then he remembers that Ginny is in fact still standing right next to him.
He looks at her.
Her expression is less than pleased.
‘Wait,’ says Hermione, twisting around on Ron’s knee to face Harry. ‘You snogged my boyfriend?’
He should probably answer Hermione.
Ginny’s expression is hieroglyphs: apparently, other people can understand it.
‘Goodness, you’re desperate,’ she says at last.
‘I can’t believe you two have been kissing,’ says Hermione, and Harry looks around and away from Ginny’s face. Hermione beckons him with a free hand and pats the chair next to her; her other arm is wrapped around Ron’s neck. ‘Come here.’
He crosses to the table and sits back down. Ginny sits down next to George, who passes Harry the Firewhiskey. ‘It isn’t going to drink itself.’
Harry stares at the bottle. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
Ron snorts. ‘That’s because you’re not a real man. Give it here.’
Hermione snatches it up from the table. ‘Oh, no you don’t. You’ve both had enough for one night.’
‘Don’t think you can tell me what to do just because I asked you to marry me -’
‘No, I can tell you what to do because I’m Hermione and you’re Ron -’
‘I didn’t want him to kiss me,’ Harry says morosely to no one in particular.
‘I could have lived a long and happy life without having to see it myself,’ George says. ‘Bet you loved the dancing, though.’
Harry nods. ‘Dancing is always excellent.’
A sober smile twists Ginny’s lips. ‘You’re so drunk,’ she says.
‘You’re in trouble,’ George says to Harry.
Harry grins in what he hopes is an attractive half-smile way. Unfortunately, he can feel that its lopsidedness is less ‘I would like to ravish you’ and more ‘Quasimodo’. ‘Maybe I’ll be forgiven by the morning,’ he says.
‘It is the morning,’ says Hermione. ‘We should go to bed.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ says Ron, his hand creeping up her thigh.
‘No, Ron -’
‘Eurgh,’ says Ginny, and she leans over the table and hits Ron on the shoulder. ‘Stop that.’
‘You’re all just jealous,’ Ron says into Hermione’s neck. ‘Jealous of the future Mr and Mrs Weasley.’
Hermione twists around on his lap again. ‘If you call me that one more time -’
But then they start kissing and Hermione’s threat is lost to the other three forever.
‘I’m going to bed,’ says Harry, unsteadily getting to his feet.
‘G’night,’ says George, using Hermione’s distraction to grab the bottle.
Ginny smiles at him vaguely.
He makes for the stairs.
Redemption.
I.
George and Ginny listen to Harry’s footsteps ambling away into quietness.
‘He’s been fussing around you a bit lately, hasn’t he?’ asks George.
‘Mmm.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘No.’
There is nothing but the noise of slurping.
‘I should go upstairs,’ she sighs dramatically. ‘Make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit.’
‘True,’ George says, eyes uncharacteristically unreadable. ‘You sort of owe him one.’
I’ve already given him one - Ginny bites back her retort and rises, waving her brother a goodnight before leaving the kitchen and ascending the stairs.
When she reaches his room she just touches the door; when it gives, she pushes it open a crack.
He is sound asleep, for once, and still fully dressed, but he managed to get his shoes off before passing out on top of the bedclothes.
She enters the sparse room that used to belong to Percy and crossing to the window, shuts the curtains not against the night but the upcoming dawn.
‘Ginny?’
She jumps and spins around. ‘Oh my God, Harry!’
His eyes are still closed. ‘Ginny?’
Her breathing calms. ‘Yes?’
‘Shut up, Hermione.’
And then she realizes he isn’t talking to her.
‘Make your boyfriend do the de-gnoming,’ he mutters, and then his words trail off into nothings.
Smiling, she turns to go.
‘What - what? What’s happened?’
She looks back: his eyes are still closed but his hand on his pillow has turned into a fist.
‘What happened? What’s - Ron? Ron, what -?’
His body is starting to shift on the bed and suddenly Ginny understands the insomnia; she wonders whether she should wake him up, and another part of her wonders whether it will go away by itself, and a small part of her wonders whether she’s going to hear what happened the night she’s longed to hear about.
‘Hermione!’ he yells. ‘Hermione! What happened?’
Wondrously, she sits down on the edge of his mattress, but she doesn’t dare touch him; she knows it, now, knows exactly what she’s listening to.
What she doesn’t know is whether this is really happening or whether his words are still, in fact, unintelligible to everyone but her.
‘Lupin?’ he mutters. ‘What’s - who’s -?’
He pauses and takes a great, shuddering breath.
Then the voice he speaks with does not sound like his own. ‘Oh God, oh …’
He’s gasping in air; salty liquid coats his face.
‘What do you mean, a warning?’ he asks, and she can see the horror in his face.
She wouldn’t dream this.
‘Wake up,’ Ginny whispers suddenly. ‘Wake up, Harry -’
‘A warning? A warning for me?’ he whimpers. ‘But I don’t … I … I didn’t …’
‘Wake up,’ she pleads, shaking his arm, but he pulls it out of her pathetic grasp; then, his throat rasps and starts to gurgle.
‘Harry - Harry!’ She pushes his fringe up and presses her hand to his hot, wet forehead. This isn’t normal; she should get George or Mum or someone -
Abruptly, he rolls onto his side, the gurgling stops and his voice dissolves into moaning.
‘There, Harry,’ she whispers, turning her hand over and pressing the back to his forehead. ‘Sleep, now …’
‘It’s my fault,’ he whispers.
‘No, sweetheart,’ she soothes, using endearments Dean used to use with her that made her want to punch him in the stomach, ‘shh, darling, shh …’
‘Ron? Ron,’ he sobs, ‘oh God …’
‘Harry,’ she cries, ‘Harry, please wake up -’
‘I … I …’ he mutters feverishly into her hand. ‘It was … I had to go - the Nagini thing was a waste of time, I thought I’d better - better use my time somewhere - it was Snape,’ he pleads. ‘I just - I just killed him - not that that … matters … anymore - I - I thought it was best …’
‘Shh, Harry … Be quiet now, shh …’
‘I had to leave … I had to …’
‘Go back to sleep,’ she implores. ‘Please.’
‘I … I … I …’ His mouth moves wetly but he can’t force the words out.
‘Shh …’
She shuts her eyes and starts to stroke his forehead.
‘I shouldn’t have left,’ he mumbles. ‘If I hadn’t left …’
She opens her eyes.
‘It’s all my fault,’ he whispers, horrified, even after all this time. ‘It’s all my fault.’
‘No, Harry, it’s not your fault.’
He starts to twist around on the pillow. ‘It’s all my fault …’
‘It’s not.’
‘It’s all my - all my fault - all - my -’
And then, all of a sudden: the tension melts from his bones, he falls still, his breathing evens and it’s over.
The sudden, clear quiet slides into her ears and fills her head; she listens to his heavy breathing.
‘It’s not,’ she whispers into the dark, sweaty air, pressing her hand against his now still head. ‘It’s not.’
II.
She sits there until the morning.
FIN
Ship: Harry/Ginny
Summary: Then, he got her brother killed. Now, he’s being an idiot. She’s never going to take him back. Set two months after the end of Tread Softly.
Rating: 12+
Word Count: ~5500
Disclaimer: JKR’s, not mine.
Notes: I didn't mean to write this. But I saw the quote it starts with and I couldn’t resist. Thank yous to Mingle whose beta defined awesome. This is dedicated to Diana, because Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice/ To make dreams truths, and also because virginity’s nothing; you can lose it riding a bicycle. Comments are of course ♥
The Covenant
In dreams begin responsibility.
~ W. B. Yeats
Bread.
I.
Harry fucks it all up on a Thursday night in June.
They eat fish in the evening in The Burrow’s kitchen: Hermione cooked it, but contrary to Ron’s predictions, the meal is more than passable. Their numbers are depleted, for Mr and Mrs Weasley are visiting Aunt Muriel, but despite this, or perhaps because of it, the five of them are in high spirits. The virginal white haddock emits wafts of ghostly steam from where it sits in pride of place in the middle of the kitchen table; with Harry’s grudging permission, the last of the bluebells have been gathered up and arranged in an old jam jar and placed beside it.
‘What happened to the cod?’ asks Ron as Hermione hands out plates.
‘You can’t eat cod anymore; it’s endangered,’ she says as she sits down at the table smugly.
‘Cod’s not endangered,’ Ginny snorts. ‘Pass the potatoes.’
‘Yes it is.’
‘How come?’
‘Icelandic cod are leaving British waters. The water’s too hot.’
‘Why’s that?’ asks George.
‘Global warming.’
‘What’s global warming?’ asks Harry.
Disappointment fills Hermione’s face. ‘I explained it to you last week!’
‘Oh.’ Harry swallows. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s -’
‘Oh, no,’ breaks in Ron with an expression of horror, ‘not the global whatsit again -’
‘Oh, I have this book,’ exclaims Hermione, ‘I bought it with my staff discount - it explains the issue in relation to the wizarding world, it’s really fascinating - I could go and get it if you like -’
‘No, Hermione,’ Ron says firmly. ‘No books at dinner. And no global warnings. My brain can’t take it this late at night. Pass the bread, Harry.’
‘Oh, fine, then,’ says Hermione. ‘Find something else to talk about.’
‘All right then,’ says Harry, sawing off a chunk of bread from the loaf for Ron. ‘George - how’s Alice?’
‘Alice?’ asks Ron with a furrowed face. ‘The paper shop girl? What about her?’
‘Oh,’ says Harry with a grin, reaching for the butter, ‘just that I saw her leaving George’s room at about four in the morning last week.’
This is not technically true - what actually happened was that Harry was sitting in the kitchen, enjoying his insomniac’s cup of tea, when he heard soft, feminine footsteps creeping their way down the stairs and out the front door - but the colour of George’s ears suggests that his suspicions are correct.
Ron’s eyes narrow. ‘George …?’
George shrugs, leans back in his chair and raises his hands helplessly. ‘What can I say? I’m irresistible.’
Ginny makes a noise of outrage and thumps him. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘How long has this been going on for?’ asks Hermione.
‘I don’t believe it,’ says Ron. ‘She’s way out of your league, she’s gorg-’ Hermione clears her throat. ‘Er - I mean - er, she has some qualities -’
‘Don’t believe it if you don’t want to,’ says George with a cocky grin. ‘But if the Boy-Who-Lived himself saw it -’
‘Well, heard it, to be honest -’
‘Oh, Harry, we’re eating,’ says Hermione with a wrinkled nose.
‘No, not like that - I mean I heard her footsteps, as she was leaving -’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Ron says again, and turns to Harry. ‘Is it true?’
‘It’s true,’ Harry says. ‘Although, of course,’ he adds thoughtfully, ‘she could have been running from his room -’
‘Wanker,’ George says, chucking a roast potato at his head.
II.
He doesn’t dream about her much, anymore.
Of course, the occasional stray thought or unsought fantasy rambles across and into his mind - but on the whole, he rarely thinks about his ex-girlfriend of two years.
Anyway, the odd daydream is only healthy, Harry reckons.
Even if things have changed a little bit in the last couple of months since she started laughing again and since he saw her eating that yoghurt -
But overall, he doesn’t really think about her.
III.
He wants her so much. He wants to wake up to see her sitting on the edge of his bed. He wants a ducked head and a slow, shy smile and shadows falling across her collarbone. He wants her arms and her bright orange hair and her smooth white legs wrapped tightly around his waist and he wants them now, right here on this table -
‘Harry? The bread?’ asks Ron, and he jumps.
IV.
That night, when everything has been cleared away, when Ron and Hermione have been left to ‘say goodnight’ in the hall, when George has given them all a wink and headed off for the village, when Harry has brushed his teeth and climbed into bed and lain for hours, trying to sleep, it happens.
She glides into his room, threadbare pyjamas glowing white like the haddock, and ignoring his stutters, she lifts his covers and slides her way onto his mattress.
Percy’s old bed is only a single; he has to scrunch himself up against the wall to avoid touching her.
He tries to think of something nonchalant to say.
Carefully, he twists around to face her. ‘Is that you?’ he asks.
‘It’s me,’ she says. Taking his wand hand, she places it on the warm skin of her hip. ‘But you mustn’t say a word.’
V.
Hours later: ‘Stay with me,’ he whispers through the dark, sweaty air. ‘Sleep here.’ I want to see you in the morning.
‘Of course,’ she soothes.
‘Really?’
After a pause, ‘I promise.’
VI.
He wakes with a start in the early hours: the room is dark and hot and his white sheets are stuck to his thighs.
There is not even an imprint. No smell, no taste, no shape in the bedclothes.
It was a dream. They didn’t really do that.
Thank God.
He falls back to sleep.
VII.
Across the table from him at breakfast, a blood-purple, wine-red condemnation blooms on her neck.
Wine.
I.
‘You must stop fussing over her,’ Hermione says three days later.
Over the last three days, Harry has prepared Ginny’s lunch twice, twice recommended that she put a cardigan on because it’s getting a bit nippy, and once brought her breakfast in bed. Hardly excessive.
On the other hand, he only brought her breakfast up to her once because when he did it she threatened to hex him.
‘I’m not fussing,’ he says.
‘Look,’ says Hermione as she washes out a jug at the sink and refills it with pumpkin juice, ‘I know she can be a bit snappy nowadays, and I know she hasn’t dealt with the end of the war and Fred the way everyone else has; but you’ve got to see, Harry, that you fussing over her making sandwiches isn’t going to make her snap out of it.’
‘That wasn’t what - I’m not -’ He grabs some glasses and places them on the sideboard so he doesn’t have to look at her. ‘I’m just trying to be nice! I’m just trying to - just trying to -’
‘Get back together with her?’ Hermione’s eyes on him in the empty kitchen are sharp.
He pours pumpkin juice into one of the glasses. ‘I haven’t made any moves on her.’
‘Do you still feel guilty about Fred?’
The pulpy juice builds a cylindrical tower of pink-orange. ‘How do you know I ever felt guilty?’
‘I’ve known you quite a long time, you know,’ she says softly.
The glass is full; he sets down the jug.
‘No one blames you,’ she says.
He stares at the jug. ‘They did.’
‘They never meant to. And they don’t anymore.’
‘She still does.’
Hermione says nothing.
Harry turns his back on the pumpkin juice and, folding his arms, leans back against the sideboard. ‘She’s never going to forgive me.’
‘Harry,’ Hermione says, putting a hand on his elbow, ‘this is Ginny’s problem, not yours. You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s all her.’
His throat is dry; he needs a drink.
‘This is her problem, and no amount of sandwiches with the crusts cut off is going to change tha-’
‘OK,’ he says, because that’s an allegation that he needs defending against, ‘I never cut the crusts off anything -’
‘Harry.’ Hermione traps him with her gaze. ‘She is not your responsibility.’
II.
The garden needs weeding.
As he works, Ginny sits by him on the wooden fence and stares off into the distance. She started doing this about a month ago, and she’s still doing it, he supposes, because nothing between them has changed. Apparently.
He wrenches out one of the weeds rather viciously.
He pushes his hair out his eyes and glances up. She’s wearing a T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. He bites his tongue and doesn’t make any comments about cardigans.
Apparently, things are exactly the same between them as they always have been; apart from the fact that he now can’t say anything at all without seeming desperate. When she started coming outside to sit with him while he worked, he used to ask her occasionally if she wanted to help; if he tried that now, it would seem like he’s trying to get back into her knickers.
He swears under his breath as he discovers a clump of weeds strangling his rosemary.
Maybe he shouldn’t feel responsible, but Harry finds it hard to see how sleeping with someone who doesn’t understand that grief is supposed to go in stages rather than a never-ending cycle is anything but taking advantage.
As he sets to work on the bush, the corner of his eye sees her jumping down from the fence; he looks up just in time to catch her jagging her leg on a rusty nail. As she clutches at the cut a stream of swearwords gushes from her throat almost as thickly as the soft, slow blood seeping down her leg.
He conjures a rag out of the air, crawls over to her and presses it to her calf.
‘Here,’ he says, lifting his wand with his left hand while trying to squeeze with his right without making it seem like he’s squeezing her leg. ‘I can close it -’
‘Don’t,’ she mutters through gritted teeth. ‘Leave it.’
He dabs at the cut gently, not asking why she wants to keep it. He doesn’t ask questions anymore; not ones he knows the answer to, anyway.
After a moment, she touches his hand lightly; he moves it out of the way. She peers at the cut. ‘It’s stopped bleeding,’ she says.
As he washes the blood from his hands at the kitchen sink, he hopes that was genuinely helpful.
III.
He supposes that if he ever thought about it, he had an image of Ginny as the carer in their relationship. He’d be the one running out to battle; she’d be standing at the door in an apron holding a plate of biscuits.
Funny, how things work out.
IV.
Ginny is sitting on the living room sofa in front of the fire, hugging a cushion. There’s no one else around; maybe they can talk. Harry sits down next to her.
Her face is twisted up in pain.
Harry has become very good at anticipating Ginny’s upsets, but right now, he doesn’t know what the problem is. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ she says, not looking at him.
‘Ginny -’
‘Period pain.’
Ginny has periods?
Of course she does, idiot.
She shifts on the sofa, slightly irritably.
Blood. Yuck.
I should be saying something.
What if it leaks? Onto the sofa?
‘It’s not contagious, Harry,’ she snaps.
‘I - I know,’ he stutters.
There isn’t much he can do for this one; not that he understands these things that well, to be honest.
The best thing to do is probably to back away slowly.
And so slowly, he gets up and walks towards the door. ‘I’ll, er, see you later …’ he says.
Pathetic, even by his standards.
In the hall, he almost walks into Hermione.
‘Is Ginny in there?’ she asks brightly.
‘Er,’ he says. ‘Yes.’
Hermione peers at him closely. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing!’
‘Is it Ginny?’
‘No - er - she’s a bit … you know …’
‘No, I don’t know.’
‘You know,’ Harry says. ‘She’s got …’ He waves his hand at his stomach.
‘Got what?’
‘Her …’ Harry waves his hand around more violently. ‘Her thing.’
Hermione’s eyebrows rise with realization and her lips purse. ‘It’s not a disease.’
Stop saying that.
‘It happens to every girl.’
It’s still disgusting.
‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’ he asks.
‘Did she ask to be left alone?’
‘Well, not exactly, but …’
‘But?’
‘But, I don’t know what to …’ He tails off; Hermione’s eyes are narrowing. Always a danger sign.
‘You’re just going to leave her alone because you’re scared of the fact that she’s a girl?’ she demands.
‘She’s not my responsibility,’ whispers Harry with vehemence. ‘Remember?’
‘So suddenly you’re not fussing over her anymore?’
‘I was never fussing! I just don’t know how to help her. And anyway,’ he adds angrily, ‘I don’t want to help her.’
She gets halfway to doing another pointed eyebrow-raise, but seemingly thinking of better of it, or giving up on the hopeless case in front of her, she rolls her eyes and with a sigh turns towards the living room door.
‘I’ll see you later,’ he says glumly to her shoulder. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’
‘They’re training new people; they gave me the day off,’ she says, hand on the doorknob. ‘I was meant to be helping Ron flat-hunt, but he’s changed his mind about moving out again. You know what he’s like.’
Harry walks off towards the stairs. He could ask her whether she’s intending to live in this flat with Ron, or whether they’re all supposed to be moving in together, but those two are not the ones he feels like helping right now.
As he puts his foot on the bottom stair, she speaks. ‘Pain Relief Potion and a hot water bottle.’ She does not look around. ‘The bottle’s in her room.’
V.
When Harry, Ron and George get home from their favourite of the village’s pubs on a Tuesday night, they are very drunk.
‘Dance with me,’ Ron commands as George shuts the back door behind them, so Harry clasps Ron’s hands and allows himself to be whirled around the kitchen in something approaching a tango.
‘Poofs,’ says George, sitting down at the table and lighting candles with messy flicks of his wand.
‘And proud of it,’ says Ron. With a thud, Harry is deposited in a chair; Ron throws himself into the one next to it.
‘I don’t see why you two don’t just get married.’ George Summons a bottle of Firewhiskey from a cupboard. ‘Make it legal and put an end to the rumours.’
‘You’re just jealous,’ says Ron airily. ‘You want him all for yourself.’
George’s mouth moves with mirth but the candle-flames are reflected in his dark eyes and Harry knows that George is jealous because last year George would have been the one doing the tango.
‘I don’t fancy Ron,’ says Harry.
‘Harry?’
‘What?’ Harry turns to see Ron’s face very close to his and then he can’t see anything because there’s a hand on the back of his head and his glasses have been mashed into someone else’s brow and there are wet lips pressed up very tightly -
‘Eurgh, that’s gross,’ Harry says, shoving at Ron’s shoulders and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand amid gales of laughter from the two brothers, ‘that’s gross, eurgh, I think I’m going to be sick -’
‘It’s a good thing you feel that way, I suppose,’ Ron says with a giggle, leaning back in his chair. ‘My fiancée might get jealous.’
Harry nods fervently. ‘A very good thing.’ And then he changes from hearing to listening. ‘Your what?’
Ron grins. ‘My fiancée.’
‘Your what?’ Harry shrieks.
The grin grows by an inch.
Slowly, George lowers his half-raised bottle back to the table. ‘I don’t think he’s joking.’
‘But - what?’
‘Congratulations, Ron, that’s brilliant,’ says Ron, staring up at the ceiling with his moon-grin. ‘And yes, I was the one that asked, thanks for asking.’
‘And she said yes?’ asks George.
‘You proposed?’
‘Yep.’ Ron nods. ‘With a ring and everything.’
‘With a ring? And you didn’t tell me?’
‘You’ve lost it,’ says George in awe. ‘You and her’ve lost it.’
‘You’re getting married?’
Ron scowls. ‘When are you going to stop asking stupid questions?’
‘But - I thought you were both going back to Hogwarts,’ says Harry.
Ron shrugs; the dreamy smile returns. ‘We’re not getting married right away.’
‘But -’
‘What’s going on?’
Hermione is standing at the door to the stairs in her nightdress.
Her ‘How drunk are -’ is swallowed by Harry’s yelp as he throws himself across the room and grabs her left hand.
The jewel glitters.
‘Oh my God,’ he says.
‘Oh,’ says Hermione with a blush. She rounds on Ron. ‘You weren’t supposed to tell anyone!’
‘There’s a diamond and everything,’ Harry says at the twinkling thing.
George raises his eyebrows. ‘The world’s smallest diamond.’
Ron’s ears go red. ‘Fuck off.’
‘Yes,’ says Hermione, pulling her hand out of Harry’s and tidily folding her arms, ‘fuck off, George.’
Ron bursts out laughing.
‘What have you done to her?’ cries George.
Harry looks up into Hermione’s eyes.
With a slightly embarrassed smile, she shrugs one of her shoulders.
‘Congratulations,’ Harry says, and she throws her arms around his neck.
‘Oh, so I don’t get a congratulations, but all she has to do is swear at my brother -’
‘Do you have to be quite so noisy?’ snaps Ginny, stomping into the kitchen with her arms and face folded in a frown. ‘You woke me up.’
‘Oh, sorry, Ginny,’ says Hermione, letting go of Harry and wiping her eyes, ‘I was still awake when they came in; I came downstairs to tell them to be quiet -’
‘Did you know about this?’ Harry demands, turning to Ginny and grabbing Hermione’s hand again.
‘Know about what?’ she says, looking down at the hand that’s been thrust in her face.
Harry waits for her judgement.
‘Wow,’ she says after a second. ‘That’s … wow. That’s …’ She looks up. ‘Quite something to keep quiet about at a girly sleepover.’
He breathes.
‘I’m sorry, Ginny,’ says Hermione with another helpless smile, before shooting her fiancé a look. ‘I thought we weren’t telling people.’
‘They bullied it out of me,’ says Ron with an outstretched arm. ‘Come and sit.’
‘“Harry, I have to stop snogging you now because my fiancée might find out” - I wouldn’t quite call it bullying,’ says George.
‘What?’ cries Hermione as Ron pulls her onto his lap. ‘What?’
‘What can I say?’ says Ron with a grin, wrapping his arm around her. ‘I’m irresistible - ow!’
‘My line,’ says George, evidently the perpetrator of a swift under-the-table kick, ‘don’t steal it. Yeah, Hermione,’ he adds, leaning back in his chair, ‘you’ve missed a whole lot of boy-on-boy action.’
‘What - what happened?’
‘Harry started something he couldn’t finish,’ says Ron with a shrug. He looks up at Harry. ‘Has no one told you about the seductive powers of dance?
‘Harry was dancing for you?’ asks Hermione.
‘No, I was dancing with him. The tango, specifically. And then,’ Ron says proudly, ‘I kissed him.’
‘What?’ she shrieks again. ‘You kissed Harry?’
‘Right on the lips,’ says George, shaking his head. ‘Poor Harry.’
‘I keep being molested by Weasleys,’ Harry says with a long-suffering sigh intended to amuse only himself, for everyone has now left him by the door and is sitting at the table.
And then he remembers that Ginny is in fact still standing right next to him.
He looks at her.
Her expression is less than pleased.
‘Wait,’ says Hermione, twisting around on Ron’s knee to face Harry. ‘You snogged my boyfriend?’
He should probably answer Hermione.
Ginny’s expression is hieroglyphs: apparently, other people can understand it.
‘Goodness, you’re desperate,’ she says at last.
‘I can’t believe you two have been kissing,’ says Hermione, and Harry looks around and away from Ginny’s face. Hermione beckons him with a free hand and pats the chair next to her; her other arm is wrapped around Ron’s neck. ‘Come here.’
He crosses to the table and sits back down. Ginny sits down next to George, who passes Harry the Firewhiskey. ‘It isn’t going to drink itself.’
Harry stares at the bottle. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
Ron snorts. ‘That’s because you’re not a real man. Give it here.’
Hermione snatches it up from the table. ‘Oh, no you don’t. You’ve both had enough for one night.’
‘Don’t think you can tell me what to do just because I asked you to marry me -’
‘No, I can tell you what to do because I’m Hermione and you’re Ron -’
‘I didn’t want him to kiss me,’ Harry says morosely to no one in particular.
‘I could have lived a long and happy life without having to see it myself,’ George says. ‘Bet you loved the dancing, though.’
Harry nods. ‘Dancing is always excellent.’
A sober smile twists Ginny’s lips. ‘You’re so drunk,’ she says.
‘You’re in trouble,’ George says to Harry.
Harry grins in what he hopes is an attractive half-smile way. Unfortunately, he can feel that its lopsidedness is less ‘I would like to ravish you’ and more ‘Quasimodo’. ‘Maybe I’ll be forgiven by the morning,’ he says.
‘It is the morning,’ says Hermione. ‘We should go to bed.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ says Ron, his hand creeping up her thigh.
‘No, Ron -’
‘Eurgh,’ says Ginny, and she leans over the table and hits Ron on the shoulder. ‘Stop that.’
‘You’re all just jealous,’ Ron says into Hermione’s neck. ‘Jealous of the future Mr and Mrs Weasley.’
Hermione twists around on his lap again. ‘If you call me that one more time -’
But then they start kissing and Hermione’s threat is lost to the other three forever.
‘I’m going to bed,’ says Harry, unsteadily getting to his feet.
‘G’night,’ says George, using Hermione’s distraction to grab the bottle.
Ginny smiles at him vaguely.
He makes for the stairs.
Redemption.
I.
George and Ginny listen to Harry’s footsteps ambling away into quietness.
‘He’s been fussing around you a bit lately, hasn’t he?’ asks George.
‘Mmm.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘No.’
There is nothing but the noise of slurping.
‘I should go upstairs,’ she sighs dramatically. ‘Make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit.’
‘True,’ George says, eyes uncharacteristically unreadable. ‘You sort of owe him one.’
I’ve already given him one - Ginny bites back her retort and rises, waving her brother a goodnight before leaving the kitchen and ascending the stairs.
When she reaches his room she just touches the door; when it gives, she pushes it open a crack.
He is sound asleep, for once, and still fully dressed, but he managed to get his shoes off before passing out on top of the bedclothes.
She enters the sparse room that used to belong to Percy and crossing to the window, shuts the curtains not against the night but the upcoming dawn.
‘Ginny?’
She jumps and spins around. ‘Oh my God, Harry!’
His eyes are still closed. ‘Ginny?’
Her breathing calms. ‘Yes?’
‘Shut up, Hermione.’
And then she realizes he isn’t talking to her.
‘Make your boyfriend do the de-gnoming,’ he mutters, and then his words trail off into nothings.
Smiling, she turns to go.
‘What - what? What’s happened?’
She looks back: his eyes are still closed but his hand on his pillow has turned into a fist.
‘What happened? What’s - Ron? Ron, what -?’
His body is starting to shift on the bed and suddenly Ginny understands the insomnia; she wonders whether she should wake him up, and another part of her wonders whether it will go away by itself, and a small part of her wonders whether she’s going to hear what happened the night she’s longed to hear about.
‘Hermione!’ he yells. ‘Hermione! What happened?’
Wondrously, she sits down on the edge of his mattress, but she doesn’t dare touch him; she knows it, now, knows exactly what she’s listening to.
What she doesn’t know is whether this is really happening or whether his words are still, in fact, unintelligible to everyone but her.
‘Lupin?’ he mutters. ‘What’s - who’s -?’
He pauses and takes a great, shuddering breath.
Then the voice he speaks with does not sound like his own. ‘Oh God, oh …’
He’s gasping in air; salty liquid coats his face.
‘What do you mean, a warning?’ he asks, and she can see the horror in his face.
She wouldn’t dream this.
‘Wake up,’ Ginny whispers suddenly. ‘Wake up, Harry -’
‘A warning? A warning for me?’ he whimpers. ‘But I don’t … I … I didn’t …’
‘Wake up,’ she pleads, shaking his arm, but he pulls it out of her pathetic grasp; then, his throat rasps and starts to gurgle.
‘Harry - Harry!’ She pushes his fringe up and presses her hand to his hot, wet forehead. This isn’t normal; she should get George or Mum or someone -
Abruptly, he rolls onto his side, the gurgling stops and his voice dissolves into moaning.
‘There, Harry,’ she whispers, turning her hand over and pressing the back to his forehead. ‘Sleep, now …’
‘It’s my fault,’ he whispers.
‘No, sweetheart,’ she soothes, using endearments Dean used to use with her that made her want to punch him in the stomach, ‘shh, darling, shh …’
‘Ron? Ron,’ he sobs, ‘oh God …’
‘Harry,’ she cries, ‘Harry, please wake up -’
‘I … I …’ he mutters feverishly into her hand. ‘It was … I had to go - the Nagini thing was a waste of time, I thought I’d better - better use my time somewhere - it was Snape,’ he pleads. ‘I just - I just killed him - not that that … matters … anymore - I - I thought it was best …’
‘Shh, Harry … Be quiet now, shh …’
‘I had to leave … I had to …’
‘Go back to sleep,’ she implores. ‘Please.’
‘I … I … I …’ His mouth moves wetly but he can’t force the words out.
‘Shh …’
She shuts her eyes and starts to stroke his forehead.
‘I shouldn’t have left,’ he mumbles. ‘If I hadn’t left …’
She opens her eyes.
‘It’s all my fault,’ he whispers, horrified, even after all this time. ‘It’s all my fault.’
‘No, Harry, it’s not your fault.’
He starts to twist around on the pillow. ‘It’s all my fault …’
‘It’s not.’
‘It’s all my - all my fault - all - my -’
And then, all of a sudden: the tension melts from his bones, he falls still, his breathing evens and it’s over.
The sudden, clear quiet slides into her ears and fills her head; she listens to his heavy breathing.
‘It’s not,’ she whispers into the dark, sweaty air, pressing her hand against his now still head. ‘It’s not.’
II.
She sits there until the morning.
FIN