Some Things Never Change (Harry/Ginny, PG-13)
Title: Some Things Never Change
Author: pumpkinpasty @ pumpkin_fics
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Word Count: 2228
Disclaimer: Harry Potter's not mine. He's JKR's, which is a good thing. No copyright infringement intended. :)
Summary: After years of hurting her during the war, and only moments after nearly shagging her in the Orsino Thruston Ward at St Mungo's, Harry does his best to regain Ginny's trust.
Notes: A continuation of akissinacrisis's You Remind Me of a Time When I was Boring (H/G, R). Why? She would say it's because I'm American and I need a happy ending, but in all reality, I wrote this because M is a brilliant writer who created brilliant (and angsty!) little world. I couldn't resist. This is for M, because she is awesome. Please be sure to read and review hers first; this will make more sense.
*
You aren't sure why you went. You aren't sure why you had to go and fuck things up, again.
What you are sure of is that you've hurt her in the past, you hurt her today and you're probably going to keep hurting her for the rest of your lives. Because you love her.
Because you fucking love her.
You aren't sure why it had to be her that you needed to see, only hours after you killed the bastard, and you aren't sure how you knew where she was. You aren't sure why you thought she'd even look at you, after - after everything.
But you are sure that you needed to see her, needed to smell her and feel her and taste her, warm, thriving, real beneath your fingertips. You are sure that you needed to see someone who wouldn't coddle you, who wouldn't fling her arms around you and welcome you home - who wouldn't welcome home the hero, the hero who saved the world.
So you went to her. Because you're not her hero. And she knows it.
Thinking about seeing her was one thing - thinking about what you'd say, what you'd do, whether or not you'd apologise, if you'd kiss her - that was one thing. But seeing her - actually seeing her - was another. So you froze. And the words you'd gone over in your head once, twice, a hundred times - were replaced by something else. Were replaced by someone else. The someone else that you would wish wasn't you, if not for the awful truth that you know it is, know it has been for years now.
And then the idiot who is you but isn't you had to go and grab her. She struggled and fought, clawed at your robes and growled your name. But the moment the you touched her, you knew you were lost. From the hitch in her voice, you knew she was, too.
The next moment you had her thrust against the wall, your hands roaming skin you knew was freckled all over, and then you were pressed on top of her, your fingers slipping beneath her knickers as she whimpered and whined, her reluctance slipping -
And then there was Margaret. Then there was Margaret, and with her arrival, you lost your chance.
Standing in the deserted corridor, you aren't sure what you thought would have happened if Margaret hadn't interrupted. You would have fucked, surely, and then? Would the you-that-isn't-you have confessed his undying, unconditional love for Ginny Weasley?
Unlikely.
No, you would have fucked her and left her on that trolley while you headed to the Ministry to be the Chosen One, to be the bloody Boy Who Lived. You would have left her to be the hero you know you aren't. And the worst part is that you know she would have let you go. Because some things never change.
You stand in an empty corridor just outside the one you left her in, leaning against the wall and steeling yourself for the deluge of questions, Prophet reporters, and department officials awaiting you at the Ministry. Beyond the double-door at the other end of the corridor, you can hear panic in Healers' voices. You can hear the shrieking squeak of trolleys being whirled around and the beginnings of pained shouts, the influx of terrified screams.
This is still a war, after all.
You are about to Apparate; for once you are about to escape from it all rather than dive into it, when the doors behind you burst open.
She is standing there, her robes hitched up to her knees, revealing her mismatched socks and worn trainers, and she is fixing you with a glare that would send one of her brothers running.
You are not one of her brothers. And though she affects you more than she will ever know, you are not afraid of her.
You smirk, eyeing her socks. One is bright pink.
Her gaze follows yours and she drops her robes quickly, a faint flush rising in her neck.
“Dobby make you those?” you ask, and though you didn't think it possible, her glare deepens.
“Yes,” she says, stiffly. The tone of her voice is a warning - a warning you ignore.
“So,” you say, pushing yourself from the wall and taking a step towards her, “back for more?”
She is ready for you this time, though, and before you realise what she's doing, she has the tip of her wand pressed firmly against your neck. She is fast - impressively fast. You'd forgotten.
You throw your hands up in mock-surrender, but still, your smirk doesn't falter.
“Didn't realise you liked it that way, Gin.” Her eyes flash again, and she digs her wand deeper into your neck, stepping forward and forcing you - though you're nearly twice her size now, easily - against the wall.
You smile and reach for her waist, but her robes burn your fingers at the slightest brush. You yelp, and it's her turn to smirk. Briefly. Then her eyes harden.
“I want to know what's happened to you,” she says, swallowing hard.
Your stomach plummets, but you shrug, avoiding her gaze. “Guess I've changed,” you mutter. The tip of her wand flares with white-hot heat against your skin, and you suck in a breath.
“I want to know why,” she whispers. She is close now; you can feel her breath against your cheek, can count the tiny teardrops glistening on her eyelashes. “When you left, I let you go. I left you alone,” she says. “I didn't ask to go along - not then, not when I turned 17, not when he got Dad. I left you alone, Harry. And you ignored me.”
She takes a shuddering breath.
“Even then, I was all right - I was doing okay. I've been helping people. I've been here, away from you for the first time in ages, and I've been okay. Except you show up now, of all times - and god, Harry, you can't be here. But you are and you were touching me, kissing me, and - and - making a scene in front of my boss.
"But you're not going to ruin this for me, Harry, not again. You had no right to come here today -- or any day -- because you left me and I quit waiting and I'm not yours to kiss anymore."
Her face is hot and flushed and she's breathing hard against your neck. Strands of her hair are still tumbling wildly in the spots where you tugged them down earlier; her eyes are bright and glassy with unshed tears, and it is taking everything you have not to slam your lips against hers in another bruising kiss.
"Ginny, I never -- you know I didn't mean -- I never asked you to wait for me," you say, running your hands through your hair.
"You didn't have to."
"Neither did you," you say. "But you did."
A scarcely audible noise of disgust rises in her throat; she tears her wand away from your neck and whirls around. It was the wrong thing to say. You aren't surprised. Will you ever get this right?
Stepping so close to her that you can count the individual freckles on the back of her neck, you rest your hands gently on her shoulders and toy with the soft hair falling from her bun. She stiffens momentarily, but when you rub little circles over her shoulder-blades with your thumbs, her neck goes limp. You wonder if she realises how quickly she melts beneath your hands.
"Ginny..." you murmur. She doesn't answer, only tilts her head to one side, and you take this as your cue.
You aren't sure where to begin. You aren't sure how much to tell her. You aren't sure how much she'll believe, or how much she really wants to hear.
What you are sure of is that you have to give her the truth.
“I'm not Harry Potter, anymore,” you say, massaging her neck with a new rhythm; her scoff fades into a low, quiet moan, and her head droops onto her chest.
“I mean, I am,” you say, stepping closer to her. “But things have changed, and I'm not - I'm not him. I'm not the same Harry Potter that you - ” you break off, struggling, “I'm not the same Harry Potter you knew when you were fifteen."
You stop rubbing her shoulders and gather her hair at the nape of her neck, gently letting down the clumps still entangled in her tight bun.
“That Harry Potter was stupid,” you continue, running your fingers through her hair. “He was naïve and hopeful. He didn't know what he was doing and he left you - he left you because he didn't love you.”
Ginny gasps and pulls away, but you catch her by the waist and whirl her around to face you, your fingers tracing light circles across the skin at her waist. Beyond the heavy double-doors at the other end of the corridor, you think you hear someone shout your name, but you ignore them, tuning out the racket and peering down at Ginny. She is just as you remembered her, a gorgeous smattering of freckles and brown eyes and coppery, flaming hair -- she's everything you've dreamed about, everything you've fought for. But she doesn't trust you.
“The Harry Potter who ignored you,” you say, frowning and concentrating on the stain on her left shoulder, “and the Harry Potter that came here today - he's not naïve. He's not hopeful. He's killed people and lost his friends and is probably going to have nightmares about it for the rest of his life. He is fucked. But this Harry - me - he's the one who knows what he left behind."
You stop, hesitating, and press one of your hands to her stomach, sliding the other one across her rib cage. You can feel her heart thrumming hard and fast beneath your fingertips and wonder if yours is beating in time, wonder if she can hear it pounding as loudly as you can.
"I know I was an idiot for leaving you, Ginny. I know I was an idiot for giving you up. And I ignored you because I didn't know how to tell you that I was stupid and that I was sorry and that I still needed you. And I'm not saying the way I treated you was right, because it wasn't, but that - Ginny, that's the truth.”
You're starting to feel sick - sick with grief, sick with guilt, sick with hurt. Sick because you've treated her like she isn't worth a second glance, sick because you've treated her like a common whore, not the girl who owns your heart, and because now you're standing here, your hand on her chest, asking her for forgiveness.
She shouldn't give it to you. Just like she doesn't deserve the pain you bring her, you don't deserve her.
When you finish there is a ringing silence. Ginny has stopped crying, and even the shouts outside seem to have moved away. She just stands there, staring at you for what seems like hours, until you can't take it anymore. You bend low to her ear, breathing hard, and let the words that have been needling at you for years tumble out of your mouth.
“I'm in love with you, Ginny.”
She lets out a very small, strangled noise and buries her face in your neck. She's breathing faster now; you can hear her gasping and swallowing, hard, can feel her eyelashes blinking rapidly as she fights tears. Then, quite abruptly, she steps back and peers up at you, so close that you can count the freckles on her nose. There are a lot.
"I know," she says, and her voice quavers only slightly. "I know you are. I think that's why this hurts so much."
You open your mouth, uncertain. You need a second chance; you need her to give you a second chance. You can do it; you can love her. You'll prove it to her this time.
She places a small hand on your chest and rests it there; she doesn't push you away, she doesn't pull you close. She just looks at you.
Then, very briefly, she gives you the quickest nod, the smallest smile. You fear you imagined it.
She leans forward and replaces her hand with her forehead, pressing her frame against yours; you can feel her again - you can feel every curve, caress every inch of her. Because she's here. Tentatively, you slide your arms around her waist, rubbing firm circles across her back, smoothing the wrinkles in those awful green robes. She shudders against you and you pull her tighter, wishing you could say something else. Wishing she would say something else. Something like, "Harry, I love you," or "Harry, I've missed you," or "Harry, I need you."
She doesn't, though. She won't. You hurt her. But after a moment you think that maybe she doesn't need to. Because maybe you already know it.
You tighten your arms around her.
It seems like you stand in the middle of a deserted corridor for hours, holding Ginny Weasley, even though it is only minutes before Ron and Hermione burst through the door, followed by a horde of panicked Healers. You're filthy and muddy, you smell like sweat and grass, your bones ache, and despite everything, you can't bring yourself to care.
You bury your face in her hair and inhale deeply, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. Then you smile.
She still smells like flowers.
*
Feedback is always appreciated, and as always, feel free to friend this journal.
Author: pumpkinpasty @ pumpkin_fics
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Word Count: 2228
Disclaimer: Harry Potter's not mine. He's JKR's, which is a good thing. No copyright infringement intended. :)
Summary: After years of hurting her during the war, and only moments after nearly shagging her in the Orsino Thruston Ward at St Mungo's, Harry does his best to regain Ginny's trust.
Notes: A continuation of akissinacrisis's You Remind Me of a Time When I was Boring (H/G, R). Why? She would say it's because I'm American and I need a happy ending, but in all reality, I wrote this because M is a brilliant writer who created brilliant (and angsty!) little world. I couldn't resist. This is for M, because she is awesome. Please be sure to read and review hers first; this will make more sense.
*
You aren't sure why you went. You aren't sure why you had to go and fuck things up, again.
What you are sure of is that you've hurt her in the past, you hurt her today and you're probably going to keep hurting her for the rest of your lives. Because you love her.
Because you fucking love her.
You aren't sure why it had to be her that you needed to see, only hours after you killed the bastard, and you aren't sure how you knew where she was. You aren't sure why you thought she'd even look at you, after - after everything.
But you are sure that you needed to see her, needed to smell her and feel her and taste her, warm, thriving, real beneath your fingertips. You are sure that you needed to see someone who wouldn't coddle you, who wouldn't fling her arms around you and welcome you home - who wouldn't welcome home the hero, the hero who saved the world.
So you went to her. Because you're not her hero. And she knows it.
Thinking about seeing her was one thing - thinking about what you'd say, what you'd do, whether or not you'd apologise, if you'd kiss her - that was one thing. But seeing her - actually seeing her - was another. So you froze. And the words you'd gone over in your head once, twice, a hundred times - were replaced by something else. Were replaced by someone else. The someone else that you would wish wasn't you, if not for the awful truth that you know it is, know it has been for years now.
And then the idiot who is you but isn't you had to go and grab her. She struggled and fought, clawed at your robes and growled your name. But the moment the you touched her, you knew you were lost. From the hitch in her voice, you knew she was, too.
The next moment you had her thrust against the wall, your hands roaming skin you knew was freckled all over, and then you were pressed on top of her, your fingers slipping beneath her knickers as she whimpered and whined, her reluctance slipping -
And then there was Margaret. Then there was Margaret, and with her arrival, you lost your chance.
Standing in the deserted corridor, you aren't sure what you thought would have happened if Margaret hadn't interrupted. You would have fucked, surely, and then? Would the you-that-isn't-you have confessed his undying, unconditional love for Ginny Weasley?
Unlikely.
No, you would have fucked her and left her on that trolley while you headed to the Ministry to be the Chosen One, to be the bloody Boy Who Lived. You would have left her to be the hero you know you aren't. And the worst part is that you know she would have let you go. Because some things never change.
You stand in an empty corridor just outside the one you left her in, leaning against the wall and steeling yourself for the deluge of questions, Prophet reporters, and department officials awaiting you at the Ministry. Beyond the double-door at the other end of the corridor, you can hear panic in Healers' voices. You can hear the shrieking squeak of trolleys being whirled around and the beginnings of pained shouts, the influx of terrified screams.
This is still a war, after all.
You are about to Apparate; for once you are about to escape from it all rather than dive into it, when the doors behind you burst open.
She is standing there, her robes hitched up to her knees, revealing her mismatched socks and worn trainers, and she is fixing you with a glare that would send one of her brothers running.
You are not one of her brothers. And though she affects you more than she will ever know, you are not afraid of her.
You smirk, eyeing her socks. One is bright pink.
Her gaze follows yours and she drops her robes quickly, a faint flush rising in her neck.
“Dobby make you those?” you ask, and though you didn't think it possible, her glare deepens.
“Yes,” she says, stiffly. The tone of her voice is a warning - a warning you ignore.
“So,” you say, pushing yourself from the wall and taking a step towards her, “back for more?”
She is ready for you this time, though, and before you realise what she's doing, she has the tip of her wand pressed firmly against your neck. She is fast - impressively fast. You'd forgotten.
You throw your hands up in mock-surrender, but still, your smirk doesn't falter.
“Didn't realise you liked it that way, Gin.” Her eyes flash again, and she digs her wand deeper into your neck, stepping forward and forcing you - though you're nearly twice her size now, easily - against the wall.
You smile and reach for her waist, but her robes burn your fingers at the slightest brush. You yelp, and it's her turn to smirk. Briefly. Then her eyes harden.
“I want to know what's happened to you,” she says, swallowing hard.
Your stomach plummets, but you shrug, avoiding her gaze. “Guess I've changed,” you mutter. The tip of her wand flares with white-hot heat against your skin, and you suck in a breath.
“I want to know why,” she whispers. She is close now; you can feel her breath against your cheek, can count the tiny teardrops glistening on her eyelashes. “When you left, I let you go. I left you alone,” she says. “I didn't ask to go along - not then, not when I turned 17, not when he got Dad. I left you alone, Harry. And you ignored me.”
She takes a shuddering breath.
“Even then, I was all right - I was doing okay. I've been helping people. I've been here, away from you for the first time in ages, and I've been okay. Except you show up now, of all times - and god, Harry, you can't be here. But you are and you were touching me, kissing me, and - and - making a scene in front of my boss.
"But you're not going to ruin this for me, Harry, not again. You had no right to come here today -- or any day -- because you left me and I quit waiting and I'm not yours to kiss anymore."
Her face is hot and flushed and she's breathing hard against your neck. Strands of her hair are still tumbling wildly in the spots where you tugged them down earlier; her eyes are bright and glassy with unshed tears, and it is taking everything you have not to slam your lips against hers in another bruising kiss.
"Ginny, I never -- you know I didn't mean -- I never asked you to wait for me," you say, running your hands through your hair.
"You didn't have to."
"Neither did you," you say. "But you did."
A scarcely audible noise of disgust rises in her throat; she tears her wand away from your neck and whirls around. It was the wrong thing to say. You aren't surprised. Will you ever get this right?
Stepping so close to her that you can count the individual freckles on the back of her neck, you rest your hands gently on her shoulders and toy with the soft hair falling from her bun. She stiffens momentarily, but when you rub little circles over her shoulder-blades with your thumbs, her neck goes limp. You wonder if she realises how quickly she melts beneath your hands.
"Ginny..." you murmur. She doesn't answer, only tilts her head to one side, and you take this as your cue.
You aren't sure where to begin. You aren't sure how much to tell her. You aren't sure how much she'll believe, or how much she really wants to hear.
What you are sure of is that you have to give her the truth.
“I'm not Harry Potter, anymore,” you say, massaging her neck with a new rhythm; her scoff fades into a low, quiet moan, and her head droops onto her chest.
“I mean, I am,” you say, stepping closer to her. “But things have changed, and I'm not - I'm not him. I'm not the same Harry Potter that you - ” you break off, struggling, “I'm not the same Harry Potter you knew when you were fifteen."
You stop rubbing her shoulders and gather her hair at the nape of her neck, gently letting down the clumps still entangled in her tight bun.
“That Harry Potter was stupid,” you continue, running your fingers through her hair. “He was naïve and hopeful. He didn't know what he was doing and he left you - he left you because he didn't love you.”
Ginny gasps and pulls away, but you catch her by the waist and whirl her around to face you, your fingers tracing light circles across the skin at her waist. Beyond the heavy double-doors at the other end of the corridor, you think you hear someone shout your name, but you ignore them, tuning out the racket and peering down at Ginny. She is just as you remembered her, a gorgeous smattering of freckles and brown eyes and coppery, flaming hair -- she's everything you've dreamed about, everything you've fought for. But she doesn't trust you.
“The Harry Potter who ignored you,” you say, frowning and concentrating on the stain on her left shoulder, “and the Harry Potter that came here today - he's not naïve. He's not hopeful. He's killed people and lost his friends and is probably going to have nightmares about it for the rest of his life. He is fucked. But this Harry - me - he's the one who knows what he left behind."
You stop, hesitating, and press one of your hands to her stomach, sliding the other one across her rib cage. You can feel her heart thrumming hard and fast beneath your fingertips and wonder if yours is beating in time, wonder if she can hear it pounding as loudly as you can.
"I know I was an idiot for leaving you, Ginny. I know I was an idiot for giving you up. And I ignored you because I didn't know how to tell you that I was stupid and that I was sorry and that I still needed you. And I'm not saying the way I treated you was right, because it wasn't, but that - Ginny, that's the truth.”
You're starting to feel sick - sick with grief, sick with guilt, sick with hurt. Sick because you've treated her like she isn't worth a second glance, sick because you've treated her like a common whore, not the girl who owns your heart, and because now you're standing here, your hand on her chest, asking her for forgiveness.
She shouldn't give it to you. Just like she doesn't deserve the pain you bring her, you don't deserve her.
When you finish there is a ringing silence. Ginny has stopped crying, and even the shouts outside seem to have moved away. She just stands there, staring at you for what seems like hours, until you can't take it anymore. You bend low to her ear, breathing hard, and let the words that have been needling at you for years tumble out of your mouth.
“I'm in love with you, Ginny.”
She lets out a very small, strangled noise and buries her face in your neck. She's breathing faster now; you can hear her gasping and swallowing, hard, can feel her eyelashes blinking rapidly as she fights tears. Then, quite abruptly, she steps back and peers up at you, so close that you can count the freckles on her nose. There are a lot.
"I know," she says, and her voice quavers only slightly. "I know you are. I think that's why this hurts so much."
You open your mouth, uncertain. You need a second chance; you need her to give you a second chance. You can do it; you can love her. You'll prove it to her this time.
She places a small hand on your chest and rests it there; she doesn't push you away, she doesn't pull you close. She just looks at you.
Then, very briefly, she gives you the quickest nod, the smallest smile. You fear you imagined it.
She leans forward and replaces her hand with her forehead, pressing her frame against yours; you can feel her again - you can feel every curve, caress every inch of her. Because she's here. Tentatively, you slide your arms around her waist, rubbing firm circles across her back, smoothing the wrinkles in those awful green robes. She shudders against you and you pull her tighter, wishing you could say something else. Wishing she would say something else. Something like, "Harry, I love you," or "Harry, I've missed you," or "Harry, I need you."
She doesn't, though. She won't. You hurt her. But after a moment you think that maybe she doesn't need to. Because maybe you already know it.
You tighten your arms around her.
It seems like you stand in the middle of a deserted corridor for hours, holding Ginny Weasley, even though it is only minutes before Ron and Hermione burst through the door, followed by a horde of panicked Healers. You're filthy and muddy, you smell like sweat and grass, your bones ache, and despite everything, you can't bring yourself to care.
You bury your face in her hair and inhale deeply, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. Then you smile.
She still smells like flowers.
*
Feedback is always appreciated, and as always, feel free to friend this journal.