(no subject)
title: moments in second person (3/12)
rating: r
pairing(s): harry/ginny
summary: a year of romance, in song lyrics and sotto voices. because you never really know what's going on inside a person, do you? [rxhr, hxg, nxl]
spoilers: for all 7 books
a/n: this one is a little different than the previous two. i think i have a separate style for each couple, and this style got my muse pretty much rolling, so it's a bit longer. don't worry, when i get back to ron/hermione (in about three more chapters) those will be longer to compensate (i'm looking at you, crackers4jenn!) this one is for authentic_poppy, gily_ann, and prongssr, who share the opinion with me that Ginny deserves to be seen as something other than an incubator of Potter spawn. i really wanted to balance her need for independence with the inevitable, irrefutable helpless sort of love she must have for him. hope it worked!
[1: ron] [2:hermione]
iii. july
please tell me you're just feeling tired
'cause if it's more than that, i fear that i may break
out of touch, out of time
please send me anything but signals that are mixed
- - -
When you allow yourself to think of Harry these days, you think of your breakup.
In between the worrying and the wondering and the trying-to-forget, you retreat to that early summer morning in front of Dumbledore's tomb, when Harry looked you in the eye and told you he couldn't be with you anymore.
He broke up with you at Dumbledore's funeral. Not before, not after, but during. Which, ordinarily, would be grounds for abject disbelief at how much of a prat one man can be. But honestly, you recognize now that there was no better time than at that moment for Harry to leave the chains of a normal life behind, to step forward in his journey. Dumbledore, the man who'd kept Harry as safe as reasonably possible up till that point, was dead. And life as Harry knew it would never be normal again, not even remotely.
(Life for Harry won't ever be normal, you often think, but he continues to aspire to that particularly lofty goal. Oh, perhaps when Voldemort's dead, you allow graciously. Or Harry, himself--but you only think like that in the privacy of your most bitter, frightened, resigned moments. After all, there's no room for realism in war, not when you've got six brothers and two parents and an ex-boyfriend and best friends you'd like to think will all survive.)
That day, Harry said his piece, and you offered up the token, "What if I don't care?" And you really didn't care if Harry was worried about Voldemort targeting you because of him--you think he's a bit too obtuse to remember that time a young Tom Riddle possessed you--but more importantly, you needed to show Harry that while you understood where he was coming from, you didn't agree with it. You know how it feels to fear for those you love, but you also know how easily such a fear can stifle a person.
But Harry has never really known what to do with family. He knows how to love and protect but not how it feels to be loved and protected. You think that he will probably never abide by your independence--that to him, you will always be some touchstone of normalcy, some beacon of hope. That to him, you should be grateful that someone loves you enough to keep you from harm, even though all you got was a basilisk fang through a diary and everyone else gets to face their demons face to face.
As it was all very pointless to argue, you gave in as gracefully as you knew how.
(Which is to say, you didn't scream or cry or hurl curses, though your school trunk did get the business end of your boot a fair few times before boarding the Hogwarts Express that afternoon. The ride home was horribly awkward, and your foot hurt quite a lot.)
You want to be just as graceful when you see Harry next, which is why you vow not to think of the weeks you spent with him, blissful and content, really believing that by some miracle of fate, by some benevolence of Merlin in his bloody tomb, you and Harry would get more than the blink of an eye to spend with one another. If you dwell on those weeks, those kisses and those touches and the words he whispered to you, the way it felt to finally be noticed and wanted by someone you'd noticed and wanted for so long, only to have it snatched away in a flash of green light and a hero's hardened jaw--
You'll scream. Loudly. Angrily. Possibly even break things, and that's not graceful at all. So if you absolutely must think about Harry Potter (and really, you absolutely must, these things are, as they have always been, a bit out of your control) you only think of the sharpness in his green, green eyes when he said goodbye, and the aching, empty loneliness in the weeks that have followed.
It helps to remind yourself of why and how Harry came to be off-limits, helps to remind yourself that Harry belongs to the world, not to you.
It helps keep you from making a fool of yourself when you finally do see him again.
Which is right now, in fact, in the aftermath of the big, grand mission to bring Harry home. It helps because it keeps you from collapsing in Harry's arms when you see George has lost an ear, it helps because it keeps you from burying your face in Harry's chest when you hear Mad-Eye has died, it helps because it keeps you from smoothing Harry's fringe back when he haltingly announces later that Hedwig was hit in the crossfire.
And you are not the collapsing-in-arms, burying-face-in-chest, smoothing-fringe-back-from-forehead type of girl. You never have been--watching your mother for so long, you think you never will want to be. The vow to remember that Harry broke up with you keeps you in line so that the most you do is link your fingers through his for a few brief moments.
Still, the lightning that threads through your skin when his palm makes contact with your own...
"Would you like some tea, Ginny?" Mum asks, because you aren't allowed Firewhiskey, and they've all forgotten you anyhow, where you're standing in the corner of the room. Except for mum, of course, but you are (and you know this as secret, incontrovertible truth) her favorite, her miracle, her baby daughter. And this is her way of apologizing for the part you must now play.
Which is no part at all. Your hands itch as you remember the feel of Harry's skin, the smooth curve of his knuckles against the pad of your thumb. You remind yourself again, no part at all, and how it's Harry's fault, too, and the anger wins over the longing for a spell.
You tear your eyes from the back of Harry's head and look at your mother. Your eyes trace the lines so deeply grooved around Mum's mouth, under Mum's eye. Both her and Dad lived through the last war, you know, and Uncles Fabian and Gideon died then. You can imagine that those lines have been there on Mum's face for the past twenty years, from Voldemort's first rise to power until now, just sitting in the soft cut of her flesh, waiting to deepen with each new life and connection forged, and each new possibility of death.
"Please," you finally answer, and you're not sure whether it's acceptance or denial. Because as you sip, you feel the corners of your own mouth deepen, the grooves etched lightly into your tender skin. Every second that passes by without a word from your brothers (and from Harry), the lines seem to crack and darken, making your face feel stiff and dissembled. You wonder if the role you are supposed to fill is your Mum's, sitting here at this kitchen table, each bated breath weathering your skin a bit more. You wonder if you're supposed to sit by some window all year, holding a candle in your cupped hands, being warmed by the fact that those who love you are just trying to keep you safe.
You snort, and Harry darts a look to you, the sheer desire in his eyes sending thunder rollicking down your spine, making you catch your breath against the storm.
This is nothing you want for yourself, this waiting, but it's the only thing anyone will let you do, and you fight the urge to rebel, because your Mum and Dad have seven kids and to lose even one would kill them, too. This isn't all to do Harry, you remind yourself.
Except it is, it really, really is, and a week after Harry arrives, your patience with your own complacency runs out and you decide to take control of the situation while it's yours to control. You resolve to find Harry and demand that for once, you and he both stop making your entire relationship about sticking it to bleeding Lord Voldemort. You are so confused, sometimes. You don't understand--does he like the idea that you are now free to go find another bloke? Or does he really not know you well enough to know that you're not going to wait around forever?
Or perhaps he does know you well enough to know you are going to wait around forever, if that's what you have to do. The decision has been made for you, it was made a long time ago, in fact. You hate it, sometimes. Hate the way the air fairly hums when he's touching you, hate the way you can't catch a deep enough breath when he's looking at you. You hate it, but you accept it. It wouldn't even be so bad, if you thought he even understood that this is costing you just as much as it's costing him. Minute by minute, distance by distance.
You just...you wonder how he can stand to fight, saying he's fighting for a happy, peaceful life free of evil wizards bent on world domination, free for rainbows and flowers and bunnies and healthy relationships, when at the same time, he's letting you go so easily...
And you decide to have a conversation with your well-meaning but slightly dimwitted ex-boyfriend, one that doesn't consist of him giving you poorly-veiled hints of what's he up to and why he's up to it--
(Leaving. He's always leaving. Sometimes you think he left you before he even had you, that the Harry you got was a half-Harry, his heart off on some distant battlefield, raging against the bloodyfucking dying light)
--so, discarding your stupid vow to be intimidated by the even stupider way he chucked you, you seek him out on his birthday. All you want is to tell him you won't stop him in his journey, but you'll damn well give him a reason to come home.
He wants you still, and that's the part that makes it easier to stick your neck out again, even knowing that the outcome's bound to be the same. The anticipation in his stride is measured by the clench of his fists, the way his throat works when he takes slow, wide-eyed steps up the stairs, the taut tension of his body as he comes to a rest in front of you, his muscles trembling under your hand on his chest.
Harry wants you with the sort of intensity that lights his eyes with a fierce, glowing gleam, that makes his voice go low and harsh. When you tell him thoughtfully that you weren't sure what to get him this year, he gives you an addled sort of response, involuntary, almost absent. His eyes do not leave your lips.
Only when you let jealousy color your voice, stepping closer to him, hating all those nameless, faceless other possibilities, does he answer with a dry laugh and a backhanded reassurance.
And you finally smile, because it really is true. The quest to destroy Voldemort isn't bound to be ripe with nubile beauties. The least you can do is lessen that crushing blow, and give him something to remember you by. You let one hand traverse the expanse of his chest, fisting in his t-shirt, and the other cards through his hair, bringing his mouth closer to your own. Then he is kissing you (no, you are kissing him) and his lips are the same as you remember, dry and warm and sure. His hands sweep your back, one resting on your waist and the other buried under a thick fall of your hair, and he slants his mouth over yours, his hand cradling your nape, guiding your mouth until you are dizzy with expectation, until the fire inside is a veritable inferno, burning the tips of your fingers and the soles of your feet. Something tightens inside and falls away as his lips bruise yours, as his tongue curls against your own, as your breasts press to his chest and you realize with sudden clarity that there is a bed in here.
His spectacles press cool against your lashes and you are about to reach up to remove them, your fingers skating over the stubble on his cheeks, when the door bangs open. Harry releases you, and you both turn to face your brother, a haze still lazily clinging to your vision as you try to calm your breathing. You notice with horror that your nipples have tightened, and you spin, covering your heated face with shaking hands. Ron is saying something, and then he turns and leaves, thundering down the stairs in some sort of huff. Harry's helplessness hangs in the air like a pall, but you know without turning that he is not outraged, only resigned.
(Why, you wonder, is it so easy for him to accept the forces keeping you and him apart? The force being, in this case, Ron's innate ability to trample all over your romantic life, the berk.)
Harry says 'see you later,' and you cannot answer because the lameness of that exit line strikes you to your very core. You know Ron and Harry think they are protecting you from heartbreak, but in their very protection, they're relegating you to a status below what you are, because--
(You're no princess in a tower, to be locked in a cage called the Burrow, fortified by fretful mothering and defensive charms and stern lectures from six older brothers and a father with such kind eyes than any disobedience brings about horrible guilt. You're no princess at all.)
--you've fought like a banshee for every day of your life since that diary made you nothing but a dark lord's consort, and you won't throw it all away just to be the noble knight's prize. You want this, too and it's not fair that Harry gets to make a decision that hurts you both, just to have faith that when the smoke clears, you'll be waving a banner for him, ready to welcome him over the drawbridge, into your heart.
You let the tears of frustration leak out, lining your face with hot tracks of anger. And then you wipe your cheeks, square your shoulders, and go about your day. You're no maiden, and you can take a hint. Perhaps your tactics didn't work today, because when it comes to relationships, your elder brother has the subtlety of a stampeding erumpent and Harry has the spine of a boneless mass, but there is always tomorrow and you're nothing if not determined.
The gold flag flutters outside your window, reminds you of yours robes, the pretty gold ones that dip low. You smile. It's underhanded, appealing to Harry's decidedly repressed, raging hormones. But Weasley's never play fair when it comes to love. Harry should just be glad you're not turning beet red and calling him a teasing harpy in front of the whole school.
And yet...
It turns out that you don't get a chance to speak to Harry during the wedding, after all. Only a wink and a grin and something like a thousand glasses shattering in your chest as you try and breathe, as you turn away. You are a really good actress, you decide, quite good, because no one would know to look at you the way your stomach falls when you spin on the dance floor and Harry's nowhere to be seen.
The scenario doesn't fit the one you've mapped out for yourself, and you think angrily that you should know by now that life never goes according to your blasted plans. 'Cousin Barny' doesn't ask you to dance, and indeed, he looks quite unaffected by you as a whole, and when his face lights with the most animation he's displayed all night, talking to Elphias Doge and Auntie Muriel of all people, you seriously consider taking Viktor Krum up on his charmingly crude proposition.
Then chaos, and Death-Eaters, and you know, you know in your bones that Harry's gone. That he's left without saying goodbye and that he won't send word, and that you didn't get to make your point after all. You breathe in deep and tell yourself not to cry, because while he has his journey, you have yours and--
(When you allow yourself to think of Harry Potter these days, you think of King's Cross, when you were ten years old and you caught a glimpse of his face when he boarded the train and you knew, even back then, that you loved him and he was leaving you behind. And you've learned since that you would forever love him and he would forever be leaving you behind, and possibly, you'll be chasing that train for the rest of your life, but you don't care.)
--eventually, you'll get to where he's going. For now, all you can do is keep moving, keep going, keep from standing still.
You sit by the window at night, watching the moon, and you tell yourself you're not waiting, not holding a light aloft in vain, searching for a love that's lost to you.
But the fact remains that for now, every star that beams is a wish you make, and every moment that passes is another step closer to when Harry comes home.
[4: harry]
rating: r
pairing(s): harry/ginny
summary: a year of romance, in song lyrics and sotto voices. because you never really know what's going on inside a person, do you? [rxhr, hxg, nxl]
spoilers: for all 7 books
a/n: this one is a little different than the previous two. i think i have a separate style for each couple, and this style got my muse pretty much rolling, so it's a bit longer. don't worry, when i get back to ron/hermione (in about three more chapters) those will be longer to compensate (i'm looking at you, crackers4jenn!) this one is for authentic_poppy, gily_ann, and prongssr, who share the opinion with me that Ginny deserves to be seen as something other than an incubator of Potter spawn. i really wanted to balance her need for independence with the inevitable, irrefutable helpless sort of love she must have for him. hope it worked!
[1: ron] [2:hermione]
iii. july
please tell me you're just feeling tired
'cause if it's more than that, i fear that i may break
out of touch, out of time
please send me anything but signals that are mixed
- - -
When you allow yourself to think of Harry these days, you think of your breakup.
In between the worrying and the wondering and the trying-to-forget, you retreat to that early summer morning in front of Dumbledore's tomb, when Harry looked you in the eye and told you he couldn't be with you anymore.
He broke up with you at Dumbledore's funeral. Not before, not after, but during. Which, ordinarily, would be grounds for abject disbelief at how much of a prat one man can be. But honestly, you recognize now that there was no better time than at that moment for Harry to leave the chains of a normal life behind, to step forward in his journey. Dumbledore, the man who'd kept Harry as safe as reasonably possible up till that point, was dead. And life as Harry knew it would never be normal again, not even remotely.
(Life for Harry won't ever be normal, you often think, but he continues to aspire to that particularly lofty goal. Oh, perhaps when Voldemort's dead, you allow graciously. Or Harry, himself--but you only think like that in the privacy of your most bitter, frightened, resigned moments. After all, there's no room for realism in war, not when you've got six brothers and two parents and an ex-boyfriend and best friends you'd like to think will all survive.)
That day, Harry said his piece, and you offered up the token, "What if I don't care?" And you really didn't care if Harry was worried about Voldemort targeting you because of him--you think he's a bit too obtuse to remember that time a young Tom Riddle possessed you--but more importantly, you needed to show Harry that while you understood where he was coming from, you didn't agree with it. You know how it feels to fear for those you love, but you also know how easily such a fear can stifle a person.
But Harry has never really known what to do with family. He knows how to love and protect but not how it feels to be loved and protected. You think that he will probably never abide by your independence--that to him, you will always be some touchstone of normalcy, some beacon of hope. That to him, you should be grateful that someone loves you enough to keep you from harm, even though all you got was a basilisk fang through a diary and everyone else gets to face their demons face to face.
As it was all very pointless to argue, you gave in as gracefully as you knew how.
(Which is to say, you didn't scream or cry or hurl curses, though your school trunk did get the business end of your boot a fair few times before boarding the Hogwarts Express that afternoon. The ride home was horribly awkward, and your foot hurt quite a lot.)
You want to be just as graceful when you see Harry next, which is why you vow not to think of the weeks you spent with him, blissful and content, really believing that by some miracle of fate, by some benevolence of Merlin in his bloody tomb, you and Harry would get more than the blink of an eye to spend with one another. If you dwell on those weeks, those kisses and those touches and the words he whispered to you, the way it felt to finally be noticed and wanted by someone you'd noticed and wanted for so long, only to have it snatched away in a flash of green light and a hero's hardened jaw--
You'll scream. Loudly. Angrily. Possibly even break things, and that's not graceful at all. So if you absolutely must think about Harry Potter (and really, you absolutely must, these things are, as they have always been, a bit out of your control) you only think of the sharpness in his green, green eyes when he said goodbye, and the aching, empty loneliness in the weeks that have followed.
It helps to remind yourself of why and how Harry came to be off-limits, helps to remind yourself that Harry belongs to the world, not to you.
It helps keep you from making a fool of yourself when you finally do see him again.
Which is right now, in fact, in the aftermath of the big, grand mission to bring Harry home. It helps because it keeps you from collapsing in Harry's arms when you see George has lost an ear, it helps because it keeps you from burying your face in Harry's chest when you hear Mad-Eye has died, it helps because it keeps you from smoothing Harry's fringe back when he haltingly announces later that Hedwig was hit in the crossfire.
And you are not the collapsing-in-arms, burying-face-in-chest, smoothing-fringe-back-from-forehead type of girl. You never have been--watching your mother for so long, you think you never will want to be. The vow to remember that Harry broke up with you keeps you in line so that the most you do is link your fingers through his for a few brief moments.
Still, the lightning that threads through your skin when his palm makes contact with your own...
"Would you like some tea, Ginny?" Mum asks, because you aren't allowed Firewhiskey, and they've all forgotten you anyhow, where you're standing in the corner of the room. Except for mum, of course, but you are (and you know this as secret, incontrovertible truth) her favorite, her miracle, her baby daughter. And this is her way of apologizing for the part you must now play.
Which is no part at all. Your hands itch as you remember the feel of Harry's skin, the smooth curve of his knuckles against the pad of your thumb. You remind yourself again, no part at all, and how it's Harry's fault, too, and the anger wins over the longing for a spell.
You tear your eyes from the back of Harry's head and look at your mother. Your eyes trace the lines so deeply grooved around Mum's mouth, under Mum's eye. Both her and Dad lived through the last war, you know, and Uncles Fabian and Gideon died then. You can imagine that those lines have been there on Mum's face for the past twenty years, from Voldemort's first rise to power until now, just sitting in the soft cut of her flesh, waiting to deepen with each new life and connection forged, and each new possibility of death.
"Please," you finally answer, and you're not sure whether it's acceptance or denial. Because as you sip, you feel the corners of your own mouth deepen, the grooves etched lightly into your tender skin. Every second that passes by without a word from your brothers (and from Harry), the lines seem to crack and darken, making your face feel stiff and dissembled. You wonder if the role you are supposed to fill is your Mum's, sitting here at this kitchen table, each bated breath weathering your skin a bit more. You wonder if you're supposed to sit by some window all year, holding a candle in your cupped hands, being warmed by the fact that those who love you are just trying to keep you safe.
You snort, and Harry darts a look to you, the sheer desire in his eyes sending thunder rollicking down your spine, making you catch your breath against the storm.
This is nothing you want for yourself, this waiting, but it's the only thing anyone will let you do, and you fight the urge to rebel, because your Mum and Dad have seven kids and to lose even one would kill them, too. This isn't all to do Harry, you remind yourself.
Except it is, it really, really is, and a week after Harry arrives, your patience with your own complacency runs out and you decide to take control of the situation while it's yours to control. You resolve to find Harry and demand that for once, you and he both stop making your entire relationship about sticking it to bleeding Lord Voldemort. You are so confused, sometimes. You don't understand--does he like the idea that you are now free to go find another bloke? Or does he really not know you well enough to know that you're not going to wait around forever?
Or perhaps he does know you well enough to know you are going to wait around forever, if that's what you have to do. The decision has been made for you, it was made a long time ago, in fact. You hate it, sometimes. Hate the way the air fairly hums when he's touching you, hate the way you can't catch a deep enough breath when he's looking at you. You hate it, but you accept it. It wouldn't even be so bad, if you thought he even understood that this is costing you just as much as it's costing him. Minute by minute, distance by distance.
You just...you wonder how he can stand to fight, saying he's fighting for a happy, peaceful life free of evil wizards bent on world domination, free for rainbows and flowers and bunnies and healthy relationships, when at the same time, he's letting you go so easily...
And you decide to have a conversation with your well-meaning but slightly dimwitted ex-boyfriend, one that doesn't consist of him giving you poorly-veiled hints of what's he up to and why he's up to it--
(Leaving. He's always leaving. Sometimes you think he left you before he even had you, that the Harry you got was a half-Harry, his heart off on some distant battlefield, raging against the bloodyfucking dying light)
--so, discarding your stupid vow to be intimidated by the even stupider way he chucked you, you seek him out on his birthday. All you want is to tell him you won't stop him in his journey, but you'll damn well give him a reason to come home.
He wants you still, and that's the part that makes it easier to stick your neck out again, even knowing that the outcome's bound to be the same. The anticipation in his stride is measured by the clench of his fists, the way his throat works when he takes slow, wide-eyed steps up the stairs, the taut tension of his body as he comes to a rest in front of you, his muscles trembling under your hand on his chest.
Harry wants you with the sort of intensity that lights his eyes with a fierce, glowing gleam, that makes his voice go low and harsh. When you tell him thoughtfully that you weren't sure what to get him this year, he gives you an addled sort of response, involuntary, almost absent. His eyes do not leave your lips.
Only when you let jealousy color your voice, stepping closer to him, hating all those nameless, faceless other possibilities, does he answer with a dry laugh and a backhanded reassurance.
And you finally smile, because it really is true. The quest to destroy Voldemort isn't bound to be ripe with nubile beauties. The least you can do is lessen that crushing blow, and give him something to remember you by. You let one hand traverse the expanse of his chest, fisting in his t-shirt, and the other cards through his hair, bringing his mouth closer to your own. Then he is kissing you (no, you are kissing him) and his lips are the same as you remember, dry and warm and sure. His hands sweep your back, one resting on your waist and the other buried under a thick fall of your hair, and he slants his mouth over yours, his hand cradling your nape, guiding your mouth until you are dizzy with expectation, until the fire inside is a veritable inferno, burning the tips of your fingers and the soles of your feet. Something tightens inside and falls away as his lips bruise yours, as his tongue curls against your own, as your breasts press to his chest and you realize with sudden clarity that there is a bed in here.
His spectacles press cool against your lashes and you are about to reach up to remove them, your fingers skating over the stubble on his cheeks, when the door bangs open. Harry releases you, and you both turn to face your brother, a haze still lazily clinging to your vision as you try to calm your breathing. You notice with horror that your nipples have tightened, and you spin, covering your heated face with shaking hands. Ron is saying something, and then he turns and leaves, thundering down the stairs in some sort of huff. Harry's helplessness hangs in the air like a pall, but you know without turning that he is not outraged, only resigned.
(Why, you wonder, is it so easy for him to accept the forces keeping you and him apart? The force being, in this case, Ron's innate ability to trample all over your romantic life, the berk.)
Harry says 'see you later,' and you cannot answer because the lameness of that exit line strikes you to your very core. You know Ron and Harry think they are protecting you from heartbreak, but in their very protection, they're relegating you to a status below what you are, because--
(You're no princess in a tower, to be locked in a cage called the Burrow, fortified by fretful mothering and defensive charms and stern lectures from six older brothers and a father with such kind eyes than any disobedience brings about horrible guilt. You're no princess at all.)
--you've fought like a banshee for every day of your life since that diary made you nothing but a dark lord's consort, and you won't throw it all away just to be the noble knight's prize. You want this, too and it's not fair that Harry gets to make a decision that hurts you both, just to have faith that when the smoke clears, you'll be waving a banner for him, ready to welcome him over the drawbridge, into your heart.
You let the tears of frustration leak out, lining your face with hot tracks of anger. And then you wipe your cheeks, square your shoulders, and go about your day. You're no maiden, and you can take a hint. Perhaps your tactics didn't work today, because when it comes to relationships, your elder brother has the subtlety of a stampeding erumpent and Harry has the spine of a boneless mass, but there is always tomorrow and you're nothing if not determined.
The gold flag flutters outside your window, reminds you of yours robes, the pretty gold ones that dip low. You smile. It's underhanded, appealing to Harry's decidedly repressed, raging hormones. But Weasley's never play fair when it comes to love. Harry should just be glad you're not turning beet red and calling him a teasing harpy in front of the whole school.
And yet...
It turns out that you don't get a chance to speak to Harry during the wedding, after all. Only a wink and a grin and something like a thousand glasses shattering in your chest as you try and breathe, as you turn away. You are a really good actress, you decide, quite good, because no one would know to look at you the way your stomach falls when you spin on the dance floor and Harry's nowhere to be seen.
The scenario doesn't fit the one you've mapped out for yourself, and you think angrily that you should know by now that life never goes according to your blasted plans. 'Cousin Barny' doesn't ask you to dance, and indeed, he looks quite unaffected by you as a whole, and when his face lights with the most animation he's displayed all night, talking to Elphias Doge and Auntie Muriel of all people, you seriously consider taking Viktor Krum up on his charmingly crude proposition.
Then chaos, and Death-Eaters, and you know, you know in your bones that Harry's gone. That he's left without saying goodbye and that he won't send word, and that you didn't get to make your point after all. You breathe in deep and tell yourself not to cry, because while he has his journey, you have yours and--
(When you allow yourself to think of Harry Potter these days, you think of King's Cross, when you were ten years old and you caught a glimpse of his face when he boarded the train and you knew, even back then, that you loved him and he was leaving you behind. And you've learned since that you would forever love him and he would forever be leaving you behind, and possibly, you'll be chasing that train for the rest of your life, but you don't care.)
--eventually, you'll get to where he's going. For now, all you can do is keep moving, keep going, keep from standing still.
You sit by the window at night, watching the moon, and you tell yourself you're not waiting, not holding a light aloft in vain, searching for a love that's lost to you.
But the fact remains that for now, every star that beams is a wish you make, and every moment that passes is another step closer to when Harry comes home.
[4: harry]