Fic: The Trouble with Hero Worship
Title: The Trouble with Hero Worship
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Summary: Ginny Weasley is tired of waiting for her happy ending. Featuring bossy!Ginny, emo!Harry and assorted other fandom cliches.
Rating: Adult
Word Count: 4694
During Ginny Weasley’s sixteenth through eighteenth years, her nightly prayers never varied much, nor were they confined to night. Let him live through this, keep my brother safe, keep my family safe, keep Hermione safe, let him live through this…
Most people thought she was showing remarkable strength and fortitude, standing up to her mum and insisting that she be allowed to return to school, going about her life as normally as possible during a war, re-starting the DA with the skeleton body of students, keeping her face relatively cheerful. As a matter of fact, she was putting up such a brave face that some even tried to encourage her to start dating again.
As if.
Ginny was certainly not a brooder. Hasn’t she done enough of that at the age of eleven to last a lifetime? She refused to dwell on what could happen, she instead chose to think about what she wanted to happen. And in those thoughts, she never really saw past Harry emerging from the rubble and into her arms.
For three years, that fantasy and her mantra kept her going. Let him live through this, keep my brother safe, keep my family safe, keep Hermione safe, let him live through this…
As it turned out, her prayers did get answered.
To a certain extent, anyway.
Miraculously, every Weasley survived, even ‘Pompous Percy,’ though some of them would never be the same again. Bill lost his good looks early on in the war. Percy took a bad blow to the head and lost a good chunk of memory (though very little of his overblown ego, unfortunately). George lost most of his hearing, and Ron had a nasty scar going up the length of his leg, and those old scars on his forearms, of course.
And Harry…
Yes, as a matter of fact, Harry did emerge from the rubble, and for a few brief moments, he did run directly into Ginny’s arms. For those few precious minutes, the love in her heart swelled so hugely that she thought she would burst from it, and all seemed right with the world. But, Harry’s damage was not as easily discernable as the others’ had been. He had spent (it turned out) over three years trying to steal and destroy Tom’s most precious possessions. That, of course, had meant learning to think like a monster, learning to anticipate his devious schemes. No one could look at evil for that long without losing a part of his own soul. Nobody could wallow in Tom’s filth without feeling vile and tainted.
And then there was the very end; being forced to look into those hideous eyes, watching the life disappear from them…
Everybody held Harry up as a hero and he hated it. So, (typical Harry) he withdrew. He pushed people away, and Ginny was one of the first. Of course her feelings were hurt, but she’d had lots of practice putting on a brave face, hadn’t she? She then watched helplessly as he also pushed away Ron and Hermione, letting their understandable desire to become wrapped up in each other distract them from Harry’s gradual retreat. He stopped showing up for family gatherings, and Molly tut-tutted, telling anyone who would listen that they really needed to force Harry to come out of his shell. All the men disagreed, saying that they should leave him alone to deal with his pain however he saw fit, but Molly, Hermione, Fleur and Ginny all looked knowingly at each other, silently agreeing that men were clueless when it came to these sorts of things.
Molly kept trying - visiting him with food and presents, sending others to visit him, and finally one day he shouted for her to leave him the hell alone-that he wasn’t her son and that she should nag her own kids if she didn’t have anything better to do.
Ginny had held her mother as she wept, trying not to be angry at Harry, trying hard to place the blame where it belonged-on Tom Sodding Riddle and his twisted, fractured soul.
Hermione kept trying too, and she wasn’t as easily cowed as Molly; for she yelled right back at him and ended up getting called an ‘interfering, know-it-all, aggravating harpy’ for her trouble. Ginny felt certain that Hermione, too, wept after her encounter with him, though the holding and comforting were left to Ron, who would likely have a hard time forgiving Harry for making her cry.
Ginny let this go on for six months.
It actually took a heartfelt confession of love from Neville to finally spur her to action. Because, honestly, Ginny knew that Neville’s love was a precious gift, one she sincerely wished she could accept.
She knew she couldn’t, however-not with the bloody ‘Chosen One’ and his messy hair, puppy dog eyes, and wounded psyche still lodged stubbornly in her heart.
It took her a while to find him. Actually, it took a little scheming, and the invaluable assistance of Dobby and Hedwig to find him. And (naturally) he was none to pleased to be found-though she was fairly certain that she spotted a brief flash of joy in his eyes when he first opened the door. She’d spent long enough dreaming about his stupid ‘emerald eyes’ to be able to read them like an expert hadn’t she?
She walked past him uninvited and looked around his dingy little flat in disgust. “Nice place, Harry.”
Harry stubbornly remained at the door. “What are you doing here, Ginny?”
“Oh, just happened to be in the neighborhood, don’t you know? Thought I’d pop in for a spot of tea. What the hell d’you think I’m doing here?”
He seemed to be avoiding her eyes, focusing on the floor at her feet, though he did finally close the door. “I don’t want to see you, Ginny,” he muttered. It’s over. I don’t want to see anyone.”
Ginny stifled the urge to kick his shins. “Yeah, I got that message-rather clearly, too. But you see-I’ve never been all that great about doing what people wanted me to do. It all goes back to being Fred and George’s sister, as I told you once before. For some reason, I’ve always felt certain that I can do whatever the hell I want to. And you see, I’ve got this absurd notion that I very much want for you to get your head out of your arse.”
“I don’t…” he started.
Ginny ignored him, wandering around the flat and poking at the piles of dirty dishes and take-away boxes. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Potter, what’s the point of having all those piles of Galleons if you’re going to live like this? And why on earth are you still wearing Dudley’s clothes?”
“What difference…”
She ran her eyes up and down the length of his body, raised an eyebrow, raised her wand, and banished the wrinkled tee shirt and baggy trousers before he could finish. His reaction was immediate.
“What the hell, Gin?”
Any other girl might have been intimidated by the look of outrage on his face and the roar in his voice. Ginny, however, had heard worse. “Just be glad I left you your pants, Harry. Those clothes could have gotten up and walked out on their own. Now, get your arse into the shower. Now.”
“Get the hell out of my flat, you -”
Ginny held out her wand threateningly. “Next word out of your mouth, Potter, you lose the pants. Next, you’ll have flying bogies coming out of your nose. After that, I’ll start hexing off your bits, and as I really haven’t got a chance to get to know them, I’d prefer not be forced to do that…”
Harry gave her a filthy look, but stormed to the loo, grumbling the entire time.
“Nice bum, by the way, Harry,” she called out as the door slammed behind him.
Once she heard the water running, she worked quickly, throwing open the windows to let air and light in, disposing of the trash, setting the dishes into the sink and starting a washing charm, and piling most of his clothes into garbage bags. She cleaned the sheets, though it took several series of charms to get them smelling fresh. Her mum had taught her well, after all.
She’d found an old pair of sweat pants and a relatively clean tee shirt, both of which she freshened up to the best of her ability. She wondered if she ought to wait for him to come out and ask for them. The idea of him coming out wearing only a towel certainly had appeal, but there was always the possibility he’d put on the old underpants, defeating the purpose of the shower. Odd, she thought, how boys can seem completely rational and civilized, but will often revert to their animal nature, festering in their filth, if given the chance.
Food was the next order of the day, and she opened up his icebox, (an item she’d become familiar with in Muggle Studies) finding all sorts of take-away boxes half-filled with food in various states of decay. She did manage to scrounge up two eggs and a couple of fairly fresh sausage links. After setting them to frying on the stove, she dug up a somewhat stale piece of bread for toast and slathered it with jam from a tiny foil and plastic packet that looked like it had been placed in the drawer around the time that the flat had been built (though it was remarkably unspoiled). Those Muggles really can be clever sometimes, she thought.
When the water from the shower stopped running, she knocked on the door.
“What do you want?” he yelled out.
You, she thought, but answered, “I have clothes for you.”
The door opened slightly and a pale, damp hand reached around the door, grabbing the neatly folded clothes from her arms.
Ginny turned her back on the door, setting up his lunch (or breakfast, for all she knew) on the chipped linoleum table. Apparently, the smell of freshly cooked meat penetrated Harry’s cloud of angst and led him to the table with little or no resistance. She sat down across from him, straddling the tacky vinyl chair while he positively inhaled the food.
“Good?” she asked.
“Yeah, thanks,” he replied with his mouth full.
Within moments, the food was gone, and he was scraping up the yolk of the egg with his fork. It was obvious that he had lost weight-weight he couldn’t afford to lose since the last time she saw him. She wondered if he was hoping that the lack of nutrition would leave him vulnerable to some torturous, fatal, disease.
“Well, I suppose this is an improvement over the cupboard under the stairs Ron told me about.”
“The what?” He met her eyes warily.
“I suppose you don’t think you deserve better than this.” She gestured toward the bedroom/living area.
Harry’s jaw clenched, and she knew she’d pretty much hit the nail on the head. “Ginny, stop it.”
“But you do, you know. I know you hated it when they were all calling you ‘the Savior’ and all that rubbish. I know you thought you hadn’t done anything to deserve it. I would have thought, however that ten years of being loved as you were by your true family would have undone some of the damage your bitch of an aunt did to you.”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Well, maybe I don’t, but I suspect I do. I suspect that you’re feeling guilty that you lived when others died. I think that you feel tainted by Tom’s influence on you and how he got into your head. I reckon that you feel dirty because you lived inside his head for a all that time.”
Harry shook his head vehemently. “You have no goddamn idea...”
“Shut it, Potter! I know better than anyone does…”
“No you don’t…”
“Yes I do, you idiot. He possessed me; he damn near killed me. He made me do horrible things.”
“I’m a murderer,” Harry replied, coming close to shouting.
“You killed a murderer.”
“But I killed!”
Ginny folded her arms on the back of the chair, leaning toward him. “You did what had to be done…He killed your parents. He tried to kill a helpless baby. He tortured you. He killed Cedric. He stole my innocence…when you think about it; he as good as raped me. I would have killed him myself, and not felt a moment of guilt.”
Harry’s jaw clenched again. “People think I’m this hero…”
“I know. I wish they’d leave you alone. I wish they’d understand how hard it was on you. I think, eventually, they will, but, in the meantime, there are ways to keep them away without losing all your friends.”
“Ron almost died, and Hermione...”
“They did it gladly, Harry. And they did live, and now they’re nauseatingly happy and shagging like rabbits. Are you going to be stubborn enough to miss their wedding?”
Harry fixed his eyes on the table, picking at a bare spot in the linoleum.
She sat there, waiting for him to reply, as the silence stretched on uncomfortably.
“What do you want, Ginny?” he finally asked for the second time.
“I already told you,” she replied. I want you to get your head out of your arse and stop feeling sorry for yourself. It’s gone on long enough.”
Harry shook his head, glaring at her.
“Well, I suppose you could continue punishing yourself, but I don’t think you’ve really thought it through, because you’re punishing us, too, and we don’t deserve it. You made my mother cry, you know that?”
Harry looked stricken for a brief moment, but the mask of indifference soon settled back on his features.
“You made me cry, too, but that’s nothing new,” she added quietly.
He looked up in surprise. “You never cry, Ginny.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have noticed, would you? Crying over you is what got me into trouble with Tom in the first place, wasn’t it? And now, I don’t just cry over you, but I cry for you, too-for everything you’ve been through. I could have helped you, but you didn’t want it. I’ve waited for you for ten years, Harry Potter, and I’ve just about had enough of it.”
“So go on, then,” he said, looking at her defiantly, though she caught a glint of panic in his eyes.
“Don’t you think you might regret it, just a bit? When you’ve finally got your shit together and you come back to find me with two kids by some other bloke-one who had the courage to actually stand up and fight for me?”
“Go on, then,” he repeated. “I’ve told you before, you can’t have all that with me. I don’t have it in me.”
Ginny shook her head. She knew in her heart that it wasn’t true, but was at a loss as to how to convince Harry of that. Still, desperate times, she thought, and summoned whatever courage she could muster.
“You see, Harry, there’s a bit of a problem, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve got to get you out of my system, and I can’t seem to do that on my own. Merlin knows, I’ve tried.”
“What do you want?” he asked for a third time.
“You,” she said. “Forever, preferably, but just this once, if that’s all I can get.”
He looked at her with wide eyes, his face going pale, then red. She stood up, and swung her leg back over the chair, after which she walked to the bed, looking at him over her shoulder. His eyes never left her.
Ginny turned and smiled slyly as she reached the bed. “D’you think you’re …up for it, Potter?”
“Up for what, exactly?”
“Me,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse. “Here, now.”
“But…” Whatever he was going to say was lost on the tip of his tongue as she slipped her blouse off, and then began unbuttoning her skirt.
“Gin,” he said, his voice going thick, his eyes scanning her body hungrily.
“I always told myself you were going to be my first, Harry. It’s going to be up to you whether you’re going to be my last. Either way, I rather think you owe me at least this much. I waited for you for three years while you were off saving the world, certain that all the fear, all the loneliness would pay off in the end.”
“Gin,” he repeated, somehow sounding nervous, hopeful and dubious all in the same breath.
“Don’t worry, Harry. I’m not trying to trap you or anything. I’ve done the charm, and if you tell me to, I’ll go home after and never say anything about it to anyone.”
Her bravado only carried her as far as stripping down to her bra and knickers. She didn’t think she could manage the rest without some sort of sign from him, but she sat down on the bed, faking courage as best as she could. The movements came naturally to her, probably things imbedded in her genes, passed down woman to woman since the beginning of time; throw back your shoulders, cock your hip, cross your feet at the ankles, look up at him through your lashes. It could have been, of course, that he didn’t want her any more, but if what Ron had hinted at was true, hers was the name he had called out in both his nightmares and his…happier dreams. So, unless he had taken up with some slag in the meantime…
Just as she was about to dart off the bed and out the door, running away in humiliation, he stood up abruptly, walking toward her. Her heart seemed to have taken up residence in her ears; the pounding was so loud. Harry’s eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them, and positively ravenous. She thought he might be getting ready to pounce on her, but he merely stood at the foot of his bed and closed his eyes. “You don’t have to do this, Gin…”
She laughed wryly. “No, I don’t, but you do. I insist.”
“Ginny…”
She took his hand, tugging him closer until his legs rested between hers, his knees against the edge of the mattress. He reached out with his free hand to run his fingers down the length of her hair. She could feel tremors in the hand she was holding. She tugged it again, pulling his arm down until his torso was forced to follow, bringing his face closer to hers.
“Kiss me, Harry.”
“Ginny,” he began again, but before he could finish, his lips moved over hers, warm and soft, and there was nothing uncertain about the movement. He remembered precisely how she liked to be kissed, and he even managed to pull a sigh of pleasure from her, as nervous as she was.
She raised her arms up and slid them around his neck, pulling him closer still. He kissed her again, more firmly, and this time he groaned, burying his fingers in her hair.
“Ginny,” he murmured. “I…”
“Lie down with me, Harry,” she demanded, pulling him down until he didn’t have any choice. She lay back against the mattress and he landed on top of her with a grunt of surprise.
Soon enough though, he found his bearings, and the way he lay against her, his torso pinning hers into the bed, left her with no doubt that she was going to get her way. The breeze through the open window had chilled her skin, but the heat of his body warmed her even between the clothes that separated them. It was heavenly just to feel the weight of him on her, but she been fanticizing for years about how his bare skin would feel under her hands, and began to regret having given him something clean to wear. She slipped her hands under his shirt, tracing his spine, sliding her palms over the bones of his shoulder blades. Too thin by far, but still, he felt wonderful.
In the meantime, he was kissing her like a starved man, hardly giving her a chance to catch her breath. She wasn’t about to complain, because that also meant that he was unable to stop and take a breath, which meant that he would likely not get a chance to rethink things and put an end to it all. Ginny was counting on him losing rational thought and thinking with his other brain, the one that most blokes had very little control over. Soon enough, his lips found their way to her neck, and at that point she was well past rational thought herself, especially when his hand moved to tentatively cover her breast.
“Oh, Harry,” she sighed, wondering why she felt the need to keep saying his name out loud, as though he was only something she’d conjured in her many dreams about him and not here beside her, with all his warm flesh only a touch away. She tugged at his shirt and he sat up a bit, allowing her to slip it over his head, but he was unable to meet her eyes once it was gone. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling his heart beating erratically under her palm, skimming her fingers over the sparse black hair that had grown there. He looked down at her hand, covering it with his own, his breath coming in short gasps as if he was terrified. She understood how he felt and knew that it was going to be up to her to take the next step.
She placed his hand back on her breast and his thumb tentatively brushed the underside. Summoning a bit more nerve, she reached back to unhook her bra, allowing it to come loose under his hand. His face reddened, but he still managed to reach up, drawing it down her shoulders and letting it slide off her arms. She closed her eyes in embarrassment as she felt her breasts react to the sudden exposure to the cool air and heard him groan under his breath. When she finally managed to look at him again, she found him lowering his mouth to her nipple. The warmth of his breath on her skin made her shiver, and she slid her arms around him, closing her eyes in bliss at the sensation of his tongue circling over the achingly sensitive tissue.
“That’s right,’ she murmured, sliding her fingers up the nape of his neck, encouraging him not to stop, and he groaned in response. His lips closed over her nipple and she let out a gasp, tightening her fingers in his hair.
“Harry,” she repeated, and somehow, saying his name actually did seem to make him more real. “Harry…” she repeated again and again as his mouth explored the underside of her breast, as his fingers skimmed the sensitive skin of her midriff, as they tentatively slipped under the elastic of her knickers.
His body slid back up hers and he began kissing her again, and she could feel the length of his erection pressing against the very body part that craved it the most. She felt a thrill of victory as he looked at her, his body betraying his utter capitulation.
“Yes,” she murmured in encouragement, her fingers venturing under the elastic of his sweats, clutching the firm muscle of his arse, telling him in no uncertain terms where she wanted him. She raked her fingernails down his hips, nudging his sweats down and grasping him with a firm hand. He responded by pushing her knickers down her hips roughly, thrusting a finger inside of her, groaning in approval of the welcoming wetness he discovered.
“Hurry,” she whispered in his ear, kicking his clothes the rest of the way off his body. His eyes bored into hers, demanding their complete approval as he slipped inside of her. It wasn’t until he was fully sheathed within her that he closed his eyes in bliss and she found herself moaning, half in pain, half in pleasure. Harry was so far gone that he didn’t know the difference. She squeezed her muscles in encouragement, in spite of the pain, wrapping her legs around him as though he was a broom between her thighs, needing guidance. He swore under his breath and began to move.
“Ginny,” he groaned, and she felt more power than she had felt in her life, watching the sheer joy in his eyes, feeling his body trembling over hers, hearing the break in his voice as he tried vainly to keep control over the situation. She felt a powerful burst of pleasure at the start of every movement and pain-which still felt oddly fulfilling-at the end of it. And though she’d been certain that she would be the one calling the shots, that she could detach herself emotionally, she was wrong. Somehow, she doubted Harry was wielding control, either.
“Ginny!” he finally shouted, and it would have been a triumphant moment for her had she not been crying out, “Harry!” at the very same time. And there was also little triumph in the fact that she had so many tears in her eyes, she couldn’t seem to see straight. She would have been mortified were it not for the fact that Harry also had tears streaming down his face. Then she had to blow whatever advantage she had held by blurting out, “I love you,” before she could stop herself, though she did have the presence of mind to add, “You daft prick,” after it.
Harry, though, didn’t seem to care about the last part. He was too busy burying his head between her breasts to worry much about the consequences of what he had done. And when he finally did murmur, “I love you,” (even though he actually said it to her left tit) she decided to hold him to it - quite literally, holding him to her heart until he had cried out every bit of lingering self-hatred that could be got rid of in a single afternoon.
Ginny knew better than to hope that she had solved all his problems, but holding him in her arms as he slept gave her more hope than she’d had since the end of the war. And somehow, stroking his dark hair as he slept managed to banish a good deal of guilt concerning Tom Riddle and whatever lingering hold he might ever have had on her.
After a time, (sometime after their third shag) she looked down at the young man smiling in his sleep, arm and legs casually draped over her and would have bet money that he was done with martyrdom. She clutched him tightly to her breast, tucking the blanket around them and apparated them both to her room at the Burrow.
Harry never went back to that seedy flat, though Ginny did, if only for his wand and one or two other indispensable items. For a day or two, Harry lived in Fred, George, and Charlie’s old clothes, and gorged himself on the food that Molly Weasley thrust upon him as a way of salving her wounded heart, and his guilt.
Within a month, Harry stood on a dais beside Ron, grinning from ear to ear as his two best friends took the first step of their new life together, never mentioning that he and Ginny had taken a similar step in a tiny Ministry office the week before.
Was he happy? Sometimes it was hard to tell. He looked happy enough, but only Ginny, who held him as he woke up in a cold sweat at night, and stroked his hair until he shook off the tendrils of filth that clung to his soul, really knew for certain.
It wasn’t until he held Lily for the first time, meeting her bright green, curious eyes, kissing her downy tuft of copper hair, that he began to have hope in humanity again. And through his daughter’s eyes, he was finally able to see himself as a hero
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Summary: Ginny Weasley is tired of waiting for her happy ending. Featuring bossy!Ginny, emo!Harry and assorted other fandom cliches.
Rating: Adult
Word Count: 4694
During Ginny Weasley’s sixteenth through eighteenth years, her nightly prayers never varied much, nor were they confined to night. Let him live through this, keep my brother safe, keep my family safe, keep Hermione safe, let him live through this…
Most people thought she was showing remarkable strength and fortitude, standing up to her mum and insisting that she be allowed to return to school, going about her life as normally as possible during a war, re-starting the DA with the skeleton body of students, keeping her face relatively cheerful. As a matter of fact, she was putting up such a brave face that some even tried to encourage her to start dating again.
As if.
Ginny was certainly not a brooder. Hasn’t she done enough of that at the age of eleven to last a lifetime? She refused to dwell on what could happen, she instead chose to think about what she wanted to happen. And in those thoughts, she never really saw past Harry emerging from the rubble and into her arms.
For three years, that fantasy and her mantra kept her going. Let him live through this, keep my brother safe, keep my family safe, keep Hermione safe, let him live through this…
As it turned out, her prayers did get answered.
To a certain extent, anyway.
Miraculously, every Weasley survived, even ‘Pompous Percy,’ though some of them would never be the same again. Bill lost his good looks early on in the war. Percy took a bad blow to the head and lost a good chunk of memory (though very little of his overblown ego, unfortunately). George lost most of his hearing, and Ron had a nasty scar going up the length of his leg, and those old scars on his forearms, of course.
And Harry…
Yes, as a matter of fact, Harry did emerge from the rubble, and for a few brief moments, he did run directly into Ginny’s arms. For those few precious minutes, the love in her heart swelled so hugely that she thought she would burst from it, and all seemed right with the world. But, Harry’s damage was not as easily discernable as the others’ had been. He had spent (it turned out) over three years trying to steal and destroy Tom’s most precious possessions. That, of course, had meant learning to think like a monster, learning to anticipate his devious schemes. No one could look at evil for that long without losing a part of his own soul. Nobody could wallow in Tom’s filth without feeling vile and tainted.
And then there was the very end; being forced to look into those hideous eyes, watching the life disappear from them…
Everybody held Harry up as a hero and he hated it. So, (typical Harry) he withdrew. He pushed people away, and Ginny was one of the first. Of course her feelings were hurt, but she’d had lots of practice putting on a brave face, hadn’t she? She then watched helplessly as he also pushed away Ron and Hermione, letting their understandable desire to become wrapped up in each other distract them from Harry’s gradual retreat. He stopped showing up for family gatherings, and Molly tut-tutted, telling anyone who would listen that they really needed to force Harry to come out of his shell. All the men disagreed, saying that they should leave him alone to deal with his pain however he saw fit, but Molly, Hermione, Fleur and Ginny all looked knowingly at each other, silently agreeing that men were clueless when it came to these sorts of things.
Molly kept trying - visiting him with food and presents, sending others to visit him, and finally one day he shouted for her to leave him the hell alone-that he wasn’t her son and that she should nag her own kids if she didn’t have anything better to do.
Ginny had held her mother as she wept, trying not to be angry at Harry, trying hard to place the blame where it belonged-on Tom Sodding Riddle and his twisted, fractured soul.
Hermione kept trying too, and she wasn’t as easily cowed as Molly; for she yelled right back at him and ended up getting called an ‘interfering, know-it-all, aggravating harpy’ for her trouble. Ginny felt certain that Hermione, too, wept after her encounter with him, though the holding and comforting were left to Ron, who would likely have a hard time forgiving Harry for making her cry.
Ginny let this go on for six months.
It actually took a heartfelt confession of love from Neville to finally spur her to action. Because, honestly, Ginny knew that Neville’s love was a precious gift, one she sincerely wished she could accept.
She knew she couldn’t, however-not with the bloody ‘Chosen One’ and his messy hair, puppy dog eyes, and wounded psyche still lodged stubbornly in her heart.
It took her a while to find him. Actually, it took a little scheming, and the invaluable assistance of Dobby and Hedwig to find him. And (naturally) he was none to pleased to be found-though she was fairly certain that she spotted a brief flash of joy in his eyes when he first opened the door. She’d spent long enough dreaming about his stupid ‘emerald eyes’ to be able to read them like an expert hadn’t she?
She walked past him uninvited and looked around his dingy little flat in disgust. “Nice place, Harry.”
Harry stubbornly remained at the door. “What are you doing here, Ginny?”
“Oh, just happened to be in the neighborhood, don’t you know? Thought I’d pop in for a spot of tea. What the hell d’you think I’m doing here?”
He seemed to be avoiding her eyes, focusing on the floor at her feet, though he did finally close the door. “I don’t want to see you, Ginny,” he muttered. It’s over. I don’t want to see anyone.”
Ginny stifled the urge to kick his shins. “Yeah, I got that message-rather clearly, too. But you see-I’ve never been all that great about doing what people wanted me to do. It all goes back to being Fred and George’s sister, as I told you once before. For some reason, I’ve always felt certain that I can do whatever the hell I want to. And you see, I’ve got this absurd notion that I very much want for you to get your head out of your arse.”
“I don’t…” he started.
Ginny ignored him, wandering around the flat and poking at the piles of dirty dishes and take-away boxes. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Potter, what’s the point of having all those piles of Galleons if you’re going to live like this? And why on earth are you still wearing Dudley’s clothes?”
“What difference…”
She ran her eyes up and down the length of his body, raised an eyebrow, raised her wand, and banished the wrinkled tee shirt and baggy trousers before he could finish. His reaction was immediate.
“What the hell, Gin?”
Any other girl might have been intimidated by the look of outrage on his face and the roar in his voice. Ginny, however, had heard worse. “Just be glad I left you your pants, Harry. Those clothes could have gotten up and walked out on their own. Now, get your arse into the shower. Now.”
“Get the hell out of my flat, you -”
Ginny held out her wand threateningly. “Next word out of your mouth, Potter, you lose the pants. Next, you’ll have flying bogies coming out of your nose. After that, I’ll start hexing off your bits, and as I really haven’t got a chance to get to know them, I’d prefer not be forced to do that…”
Harry gave her a filthy look, but stormed to the loo, grumbling the entire time.
“Nice bum, by the way, Harry,” she called out as the door slammed behind him.
Once she heard the water running, she worked quickly, throwing open the windows to let air and light in, disposing of the trash, setting the dishes into the sink and starting a washing charm, and piling most of his clothes into garbage bags. She cleaned the sheets, though it took several series of charms to get them smelling fresh. Her mum had taught her well, after all.
She’d found an old pair of sweat pants and a relatively clean tee shirt, both of which she freshened up to the best of her ability. She wondered if she ought to wait for him to come out and ask for them. The idea of him coming out wearing only a towel certainly had appeal, but there was always the possibility he’d put on the old underpants, defeating the purpose of the shower. Odd, she thought, how boys can seem completely rational and civilized, but will often revert to their animal nature, festering in their filth, if given the chance.
Food was the next order of the day, and she opened up his icebox, (an item she’d become familiar with in Muggle Studies) finding all sorts of take-away boxes half-filled with food in various states of decay. She did manage to scrounge up two eggs and a couple of fairly fresh sausage links. After setting them to frying on the stove, she dug up a somewhat stale piece of bread for toast and slathered it with jam from a tiny foil and plastic packet that looked like it had been placed in the drawer around the time that the flat had been built (though it was remarkably unspoiled). Those Muggles really can be clever sometimes, she thought.
When the water from the shower stopped running, she knocked on the door.
“What do you want?” he yelled out.
You, she thought, but answered, “I have clothes for you.”
The door opened slightly and a pale, damp hand reached around the door, grabbing the neatly folded clothes from her arms.
Ginny turned her back on the door, setting up his lunch (or breakfast, for all she knew) on the chipped linoleum table. Apparently, the smell of freshly cooked meat penetrated Harry’s cloud of angst and led him to the table with little or no resistance. She sat down across from him, straddling the tacky vinyl chair while he positively inhaled the food.
“Good?” she asked.
“Yeah, thanks,” he replied with his mouth full.
Within moments, the food was gone, and he was scraping up the yolk of the egg with his fork. It was obvious that he had lost weight-weight he couldn’t afford to lose since the last time she saw him. She wondered if he was hoping that the lack of nutrition would leave him vulnerable to some torturous, fatal, disease.
“Well, I suppose this is an improvement over the cupboard under the stairs Ron told me about.”
“The what?” He met her eyes warily.
“I suppose you don’t think you deserve better than this.” She gestured toward the bedroom/living area.
Harry’s jaw clenched, and she knew she’d pretty much hit the nail on the head. “Ginny, stop it.”
“But you do, you know. I know you hated it when they were all calling you ‘the Savior’ and all that rubbish. I know you thought you hadn’t done anything to deserve it. I would have thought, however that ten years of being loved as you were by your true family would have undone some of the damage your bitch of an aunt did to you.”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Well, maybe I don’t, but I suspect I do. I suspect that you’re feeling guilty that you lived when others died. I think that you feel tainted by Tom’s influence on you and how he got into your head. I reckon that you feel dirty because you lived inside his head for a all that time.”
Harry shook his head vehemently. “You have no goddamn idea...”
“Shut it, Potter! I know better than anyone does…”
“No you don’t…”
“Yes I do, you idiot. He possessed me; he damn near killed me. He made me do horrible things.”
“I’m a murderer,” Harry replied, coming close to shouting.
“You killed a murderer.”
“But I killed!”
Ginny folded her arms on the back of the chair, leaning toward him. “You did what had to be done…He killed your parents. He tried to kill a helpless baby. He tortured you. He killed Cedric. He stole my innocence…when you think about it; he as good as raped me. I would have killed him myself, and not felt a moment of guilt.”
Harry’s jaw clenched again. “People think I’m this hero…”
“I know. I wish they’d leave you alone. I wish they’d understand how hard it was on you. I think, eventually, they will, but, in the meantime, there are ways to keep them away without losing all your friends.”
“Ron almost died, and Hermione...”
“They did it gladly, Harry. And they did live, and now they’re nauseatingly happy and shagging like rabbits. Are you going to be stubborn enough to miss their wedding?”
Harry fixed his eyes on the table, picking at a bare spot in the linoleum.
She sat there, waiting for him to reply, as the silence stretched on uncomfortably.
“What do you want, Ginny?” he finally asked for the second time.
“I already told you,” she replied. I want you to get your head out of your arse and stop feeling sorry for yourself. It’s gone on long enough.”
Harry shook his head, glaring at her.
“Well, I suppose you could continue punishing yourself, but I don’t think you’ve really thought it through, because you’re punishing us, too, and we don’t deserve it. You made my mother cry, you know that?”
Harry looked stricken for a brief moment, but the mask of indifference soon settled back on his features.
“You made me cry, too, but that’s nothing new,” she added quietly.
He looked up in surprise. “You never cry, Ginny.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have noticed, would you? Crying over you is what got me into trouble with Tom in the first place, wasn’t it? And now, I don’t just cry over you, but I cry for you, too-for everything you’ve been through. I could have helped you, but you didn’t want it. I’ve waited for you for ten years, Harry Potter, and I’ve just about had enough of it.”
“So go on, then,” he said, looking at her defiantly, though she caught a glint of panic in his eyes.
“Don’t you think you might regret it, just a bit? When you’ve finally got your shit together and you come back to find me with two kids by some other bloke-one who had the courage to actually stand up and fight for me?”
“Go on, then,” he repeated. “I’ve told you before, you can’t have all that with me. I don’t have it in me.”
Ginny shook her head. She knew in her heart that it wasn’t true, but was at a loss as to how to convince Harry of that. Still, desperate times, she thought, and summoned whatever courage she could muster.
“You see, Harry, there’s a bit of a problem, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve got to get you out of my system, and I can’t seem to do that on my own. Merlin knows, I’ve tried.”
“What do you want?” he asked for a third time.
“You,” she said. “Forever, preferably, but just this once, if that’s all I can get.”
He looked at her with wide eyes, his face going pale, then red. She stood up, and swung her leg back over the chair, after which she walked to the bed, looking at him over her shoulder. His eyes never left her.
Ginny turned and smiled slyly as she reached the bed. “D’you think you’re …up for it, Potter?”
“Up for what, exactly?”
“Me,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse. “Here, now.”
“But…” Whatever he was going to say was lost on the tip of his tongue as she slipped her blouse off, and then began unbuttoning her skirt.
“Gin,” he said, his voice going thick, his eyes scanning her body hungrily.
“I always told myself you were going to be my first, Harry. It’s going to be up to you whether you’re going to be my last. Either way, I rather think you owe me at least this much. I waited for you for three years while you were off saving the world, certain that all the fear, all the loneliness would pay off in the end.”
“Gin,” he repeated, somehow sounding nervous, hopeful and dubious all in the same breath.
“Don’t worry, Harry. I’m not trying to trap you or anything. I’ve done the charm, and if you tell me to, I’ll go home after and never say anything about it to anyone.”
Her bravado only carried her as far as stripping down to her bra and knickers. She didn’t think she could manage the rest without some sort of sign from him, but she sat down on the bed, faking courage as best as she could. The movements came naturally to her, probably things imbedded in her genes, passed down woman to woman since the beginning of time; throw back your shoulders, cock your hip, cross your feet at the ankles, look up at him through your lashes. It could have been, of course, that he didn’t want her any more, but if what Ron had hinted at was true, hers was the name he had called out in both his nightmares and his…happier dreams. So, unless he had taken up with some slag in the meantime…
Just as she was about to dart off the bed and out the door, running away in humiliation, he stood up abruptly, walking toward her. Her heart seemed to have taken up residence in her ears; the pounding was so loud. Harry’s eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them, and positively ravenous. She thought he might be getting ready to pounce on her, but he merely stood at the foot of his bed and closed his eyes. “You don’t have to do this, Gin…”
She laughed wryly. “No, I don’t, but you do. I insist.”
“Ginny…”
She took his hand, tugging him closer until his legs rested between hers, his knees against the edge of the mattress. He reached out with his free hand to run his fingers down the length of her hair. She could feel tremors in the hand she was holding. She tugged it again, pulling his arm down until his torso was forced to follow, bringing his face closer to hers.
“Kiss me, Harry.”
“Ginny,” he began again, but before he could finish, his lips moved over hers, warm and soft, and there was nothing uncertain about the movement. He remembered precisely how she liked to be kissed, and he even managed to pull a sigh of pleasure from her, as nervous as she was.
She raised her arms up and slid them around his neck, pulling him closer still. He kissed her again, more firmly, and this time he groaned, burying his fingers in her hair.
“Ginny,” he murmured. “I…”
“Lie down with me, Harry,” she demanded, pulling him down until he didn’t have any choice. She lay back against the mattress and he landed on top of her with a grunt of surprise.
Soon enough though, he found his bearings, and the way he lay against her, his torso pinning hers into the bed, left her with no doubt that she was going to get her way. The breeze through the open window had chilled her skin, but the heat of his body warmed her even between the clothes that separated them. It was heavenly just to feel the weight of him on her, but she been fanticizing for years about how his bare skin would feel under her hands, and began to regret having given him something clean to wear. She slipped her hands under his shirt, tracing his spine, sliding her palms over the bones of his shoulder blades. Too thin by far, but still, he felt wonderful.
In the meantime, he was kissing her like a starved man, hardly giving her a chance to catch her breath. She wasn’t about to complain, because that also meant that he was unable to stop and take a breath, which meant that he would likely not get a chance to rethink things and put an end to it all. Ginny was counting on him losing rational thought and thinking with his other brain, the one that most blokes had very little control over. Soon enough, his lips found their way to her neck, and at that point she was well past rational thought herself, especially when his hand moved to tentatively cover her breast.
“Oh, Harry,” she sighed, wondering why she felt the need to keep saying his name out loud, as though he was only something she’d conjured in her many dreams about him and not here beside her, with all his warm flesh only a touch away. She tugged at his shirt and he sat up a bit, allowing her to slip it over his head, but he was unable to meet her eyes once it was gone. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling his heart beating erratically under her palm, skimming her fingers over the sparse black hair that had grown there. He looked down at her hand, covering it with his own, his breath coming in short gasps as if he was terrified. She understood how he felt and knew that it was going to be up to her to take the next step.
She placed his hand back on her breast and his thumb tentatively brushed the underside. Summoning a bit more nerve, she reached back to unhook her bra, allowing it to come loose under his hand. His face reddened, but he still managed to reach up, drawing it down her shoulders and letting it slide off her arms. She closed her eyes in embarrassment as she felt her breasts react to the sudden exposure to the cool air and heard him groan under his breath. When she finally managed to look at him again, she found him lowering his mouth to her nipple. The warmth of his breath on her skin made her shiver, and she slid her arms around him, closing her eyes in bliss at the sensation of his tongue circling over the achingly sensitive tissue.
“That’s right,’ she murmured, sliding her fingers up the nape of his neck, encouraging him not to stop, and he groaned in response. His lips closed over her nipple and she let out a gasp, tightening her fingers in his hair.
“Harry,” she repeated, and somehow, saying his name actually did seem to make him more real. “Harry…” she repeated again and again as his mouth explored the underside of her breast, as his fingers skimmed the sensitive skin of her midriff, as they tentatively slipped under the elastic of her knickers.
His body slid back up hers and he began kissing her again, and she could feel the length of his erection pressing against the very body part that craved it the most. She felt a thrill of victory as he looked at her, his body betraying his utter capitulation.
“Yes,” she murmured in encouragement, her fingers venturing under the elastic of his sweats, clutching the firm muscle of his arse, telling him in no uncertain terms where she wanted him. She raked her fingernails down his hips, nudging his sweats down and grasping him with a firm hand. He responded by pushing her knickers down her hips roughly, thrusting a finger inside of her, groaning in approval of the welcoming wetness he discovered.
“Hurry,” she whispered in his ear, kicking his clothes the rest of the way off his body. His eyes bored into hers, demanding their complete approval as he slipped inside of her. It wasn’t until he was fully sheathed within her that he closed his eyes in bliss and she found herself moaning, half in pain, half in pleasure. Harry was so far gone that he didn’t know the difference. She squeezed her muscles in encouragement, in spite of the pain, wrapping her legs around him as though he was a broom between her thighs, needing guidance. He swore under his breath and began to move.
“Ginny,” he groaned, and she felt more power than she had felt in her life, watching the sheer joy in his eyes, feeling his body trembling over hers, hearing the break in his voice as he tried vainly to keep control over the situation. She felt a powerful burst of pleasure at the start of every movement and pain-which still felt oddly fulfilling-at the end of it. And though she’d been certain that she would be the one calling the shots, that she could detach herself emotionally, she was wrong. Somehow, she doubted Harry was wielding control, either.
“Ginny!” he finally shouted, and it would have been a triumphant moment for her had she not been crying out, “Harry!” at the very same time. And there was also little triumph in the fact that she had so many tears in her eyes, she couldn’t seem to see straight. She would have been mortified were it not for the fact that Harry also had tears streaming down his face. Then she had to blow whatever advantage she had held by blurting out, “I love you,” before she could stop herself, though she did have the presence of mind to add, “You daft prick,” after it.
Harry, though, didn’t seem to care about the last part. He was too busy burying his head between her breasts to worry much about the consequences of what he had done. And when he finally did murmur, “I love you,” (even though he actually said it to her left tit) she decided to hold him to it - quite literally, holding him to her heart until he had cried out every bit of lingering self-hatred that could be got rid of in a single afternoon.
Ginny knew better than to hope that she had solved all his problems, but holding him in her arms as he slept gave her more hope than she’d had since the end of the war. And somehow, stroking his dark hair as he slept managed to banish a good deal of guilt concerning Tom Riddle and whatever lingering hold he might ever have had on her.
After a time, (sometime after their third shag) she looked down at the young man smiling in his sleep, arm and legs casually draped over her and would have bet money that he was done with martyrdom. She clutched him tightly to her breast, tucking the blanket around them and apparated them both to her room at the Burrow.
Harry never went back to that seedy flat, though Ginny did, if only for his wand and one or two other indispensable items. For a day or two, Harry lived in Fred, George, and Charlie’s old clothes, and gorged himself on the food that Molly Weasley thrust upon him as a way of salving her wounded heart, and his guilt.
Within a month, Harry stood on a dais beside Ron, grinning from ear to ear as his two best friends took the first step of their new life together, never mentioning that he and Ginny had taken a similar step in a tiny Ministry office the week before.
Was he happy? Sometimes it was hard to tell. He looked happy enough, but only Ginny, who held him as he woke up in a cold sweat at night, and stroked his hair until he shook off the tendrils of filth that clung to his soul, really knew for certain.
It wasn’t until he held Lily for the first time, meeting her bright green, curious eyes, kissing her downy tuft of copper hair, that he began to have hope in humanity again. And through his daughter’s eyes, he was finally able to see himself as a hero