together ; a harry/ginny drabble.
Together
RATING: PG-13.
PAIRING: Harry/Ginny.
WARNINGS: Mentions of death and depression, post-war.
SUMMARY: It takes years to heal but somehow they manage.
DISCLAIMER: The Harry Potter series and its characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I am merely borrowing them.
They pick up the pieces together.
It's a slow process and she knows--can already sense--it will be painful. She knows from the moment that he arrives at the Burrow, his every movement etched with exhaustion from the ordeal and the aftermath as he sits at the kitchen table, Mrs. Weasley already there without notice. His eyes meet hers and she sees the fissures in the wall he presents to the public, the torment, but she also sees hope, something she was afraid had died in him.
He catches her on the stairs later when no one is looking and reaches for her hand. She is shaking and tries to hide it; he can feel the tremor in her hand and she can so vividly see the corner of his lip turn up in her mind, even if only for a split second, but she is too stubborn to turn around until he murmurs her name like it's a prayer. She turns to face him and his eyes are so shockingly green (she had almost forgotten, had dreamed about them nearly every night, had been so long since they'd been this close) that she nearly loses herself in them as he asks for a second chance. She doesn't answer, bites her tongue as he mentions something about no promises, about how different they both were, but before he can drown them both in words, she nods, giving his hand a squeeze. "We'll take our time."
They grow back together.
There are times where she is afraid something will shatter between them. He is practically worshipped as a hero and she too is lauded, but when the public fades to the background, only he sees the fleetingly distant, desolate looks she gets when she gets caught up in her memories; only she sees his clenched jaw to match his fist resting on the table when he gets caught in his. They never cry in public, only when they're alone. Sometimes she finds him sitting alone at his desk, his face blank despite the tears; sometimes he hears her sobs from down the hall. They share their pain, but she doesn't know when she became so fearful--war changes people, she reminds herself daily, and she will always fight back.
He gets blindingly noble notions in his head sometimes and she has to fight him, too, when it happens. He tries to tell her that she'd be happier with someone else and that he's only holding her back, that no one as broken as he is deserves someone like her. She doesn't doubt he is being genuine, but the idea of her being with anyone but him, her volatile, brave, wonderful Harry, is laughable. It happens every six months for longer than she can remember, even into their engagement, and each time she merely shakes her head and endures.
It has hardly been a year since the battle when someone softly suggests that he should seek help, that post-traumatic stress disorder requires a professional. She is pressed to his side and she sees his muscles tighten, feels his fingers at her waist digging into her flesh. She snaps and says if she can't help him, then she would be quite useless. He holds her tightly to his side. (She is no one's possession but if she was, she would be his and he knows it.)
No one dares suggest it again and she can't keep the determined glint from her eyes.
She wakes up in the middle of the night only to turn to see his brow furrowed and his mouth forming soundless words. He jolts awake and hesitates to say anything, but she curls into him until he is ready. He talks about how his dreams are no longer anyone else's but his, but it scars him worse than any injury. His memories set his mind aflame and his dreams become nightmares of crimson and black, of death and loss, and then his mind fabricates horrific scenes of deaths that didn't happen, have yet to happen, may yet still come, and he confesses that the worst ones are when he loses her. She looks up into his eyes and she can see the emotions running through her mind are reflected in his eyes before she tells him that it will never happen. They will always be there for each other and nothing will come between them and she says these words with such conviction that she feels tears brimming.
It takes years for them to heal, but they become stronger together.
RATING: PG-13.
PAIRING: Harry/Ginny.
WARNINGS: Mentions of death and depression, post-war.
SUMMARY: It takes years to heal but somehow they manage.
DISCLAIMER: The Harry Potter series and its characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I am merely borrowing them.
They pick up the pieces together.
It's a slow process and she knows--can already sense--it will be painful. She knows from the moment that he arrives at the Burrow, his every movement etched with exhaustion from the ordeal and the aftermath as he sits at the kitchen table, Mrs. Weasley already there without notice. His eyes meet hers and she sees the fissures in the wall he presents to the public, the torment, but she also sees hope, something she was afraid had died in him.
He catches her on the stairs later when no one is looking and reaches for her hand. She is shaking and tries to hide it; he can feel the tremor in her hand and she can so vividly see the corner of his lip turn up in her mind, even if only for a split second, but she is too stubborn to turn around until he murmurs her name like it's a prayer. She turns to face him and his eyes are so shockingly green (she had almost forgotten, had dreamed about them nearly every night, had been so long since they'd been this close) that she nearly loses herself in them as he asks for a second chance. She doesn't answer, bites her tongue as he mentions something about no promises, about how different they both were, but before he can drown them both in words, she nods, giving his hand a squeeze. "We'll take our time."
They grow back together.
There are times where she is afraid something will shatter between them. He is practically worshipped as a hero and she too is lauded, but when the public fades to the background, only he sees the fleetingly distant, desolate looks she gets when she gets caught up in her memories; only she sees his clenched jaw to match his fist resting on the table when he gets caught in his. They never cry in public, only when they're alone. Sometimes she finds him sitting alone at his desk, his face blank despite the tears; sometimes he hears her sobs from down the hall. They share their pain, but she doesn't know when she became so fearful--war changes people, she reminds herself daily, and she will always fight back.
He gets blindingly noble notions in his head sometimes and she has to fight him, too, when it happens. He tries to tell her that she'd be happier with someone else and that he's only holding her back, that no one as broken as he is deserves someone like her. She doesn't doubt he is being genuine, but the idea of her being with anyone but him, her volatile, brave, wonderful Harry, is laughable. It happens every six months for longer than she can remember, even into their engagement, and each time she merely shakes her head and endures.
It has hardly been a year since the battle when someone softly suggests that he should seek help, that post-traumatic stress disorder requires a professional. She is pressed to his side and she sees his muscles tighten, feels his fingers at her waist digging into her flesh. She snaps and says if she can't help him, then she would be quite useless. He holds her tightly to his side. (She is no one's possession but if she was, she would be his and he knows it.)
No one dares suggest it again and she can't keep the determined glint from her eyes.
She wakes up in the middle of the night only to turn to see his brow furrowed and his mouth forming soundless words. He jolts awake and hesitates to say anything, but she curls into him until he is ready. He talks about how his dreams are no longer anyone else's but his, but it scars him worse than any injury. His memories set his mind aflame and his dreams become nightmares of crimson and black, of death and loss, and then his mind fabricates horrific scenes of deaths that didn't happen, have yet to happen, may yet still come, and he confesses that the worst ones are when he loses her. She looks up into his eyes and she can see the emotions running through her mind are reflected in his eyes before she tells him that it will never happen. They will always be there for each other and nothing will come between them and she says these words with such conviction that she feels tears brimming.
It takes years for them to heal, but they become stronger together.