(no subject)
Author: lyras
Title: Not a Whisper
Challenge option: All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.
WH Auden - Lullaby
Summary: Ginny and Harry prepare to confront the wizarding world about their affair
Rating: PG-13 for sexual situations. If anyone thinks this should be upgraded to R, please let me know.
Genre: Romance/angst
Word count: 2738
Notes: Many thanks to mrs_muggle for doing a fantastic beta job again!
I'm happy to receive constructive criticism in this forum; however, if you'd rather do it privately, feel free to email me at lyras@livejournal.com.
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.
WH Auden - Lullaby
Harry sighed in his sleep, turned over, and burrowed into Ginny's back, wrapping his arms around her torso. As always, Ginny awoke at his touch and lay there for a few moments, relishing the sensation of his body curved around hers. He might be Harry Potter and a hero to most of the wizarding world, but for her he was simply Harry, the man she never saw enough of.
Slowly, quietly, she inched her body around until she was facing him, and he snuggled into her, his head gently resting on her forearm. She'd have to move that shortly, but for now let it lie there, pins and needles be damned.
It was a balmy June evening, and the flimsy curtains did little to darken the room which, only an hour earlier, had been bright with Scottish evening sunshine. In the gloom, Ginny could still trace the frown lines streaking across Harry's forehead. If she looked carefully, she could even see the faint crow's feet starting above his cheekbones. There were no laughter lines around his mouth yet, although perhaps they would come.
They were no longer young, she and Harry. People in the wizarding world had a longer life expectancy than Muggles - almost double in some cases - and yet in the past few years friends and relatives had started to fall away, victims of disease or simply old age. It was almost as if, with Voldemort gone, certain of those who'd fought so hard against him no longer had a reason to survive.
Her father, for one, who'd simply shrunk both mentally and physically over the course of several years, until he was merely a shadowy presence in the corner of the living room at The Burrow. The Healers hadn't been able to suggest a treatment, saying only that he was probably happiest at home. Muggle-born friends who had come to visit had looked serious and sad, murmuring words like "dementia" and "Alzheimer's" to one another. Finally, Arthur had slipped away, leaving his grieving family unsure whether they should be devastated or relieved.
There were others who had moved on, both literally and figuratively. Some Muggle-born friends had left the wizarding world, distrustful of a society that could produce so many people who wanted to kill them solely because of their parentage. Prominent among these had been an embittered Colin Creevey, his innocence finally shattered by the mutilation and murder of his younger brother, Dennis, by students apparently testing their limits after the death of Professor Dumbledore.
Ginny watched Harry through the darkening twilight and tried to imagine a world without him in it, without their stolen kisses and feverish, fumbling lovemaking in Muggle hotel rooms ranging from the seedy to the palatial.
She shuddered, and thought of an expression she'd learned from Colin Creevey. A goose walked over my grave. To banish the shadows that threatened to overwhelm her imagination, she wrapped her free arm around Harry's back, and concentrated on holding him. He responded by nuzzling her chest, and a wave of tenderness washed over her at the feel of his breath lightly grazing her cleavage.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, who'd defeated Voldemort, who'd survived a short, disastrous marriage to Hermione Granger, and who'd never since been romantically linked with anyone, although the press had done their best to remedy this for years. When he'd turned thirty, they'd more or less washed their hands of him, apart from the odd arch article implying he might be gay. Thankfully, Ginny and Harry had always - somehow - been circumspect enough in public to prevent anyone from suspecting their relationship.
At first, it had been Harry who'd wanted their affair kept secret; she'd been willing to face Oliver, go through any labyrinthine divorce process and endure vilification by the press, in order to be with him. But Harry had been worried about hurting Hermione by declaring his feelings too soon after their break-up. Privately, Ginny had felt that this was a pretty poor excuse, given that Hermione was one of the most sensible people she knew.
But by the time Harry was ready to commit, it was her turn to panic. Not now, she'd said, not this week, because Oliver's got an important match on Saturday. Gradually, her reasons had changed. I can't upset Charlie's routine; he's too young, he wouldn't understand. And he and Oliver love each other so. Perhaps next year. And then it was, not this year; perhaps when Charlie goes to Hogwarts. Or the next year, or the next one.
When? Harry had asked her, anguished, and eventually she'd had no answer for him. Perhaps she was simply afraid that making their relationship public would sound its death knell. Perhaps she'd loved him for so long, put so much of herself into him, that she was too frightened to put her devotion to the test. What if he, or she, or they, proved unworthy of all the effort they'd gone to, all the deception, all the people they'd hurt?
She shook her head in an attempt to dissipate her anxieties, and firmly turned her gaze back to Harry. A lock of his hair was tickling one of her nipples, and she fought back an impulse to kiss the top of his head. He'd had a long day; let him sleep.
Awkwardly, she gazed down over what little she could see of him. Black hair, still unruly after thirty-seven years. A long, white back; small love handles, the emergence of which she'd observed over the past few years.
She remembered how she'd adored him as a child, in that painful, all-consuming fashion that only very young lovers can muster. To her, he'd been an almost godlike figure - the child who'd defeated Voldemort - she'd been brought up on his story. And yet the sad aspects of his life had attracted her almost as much as his heroism. He'd been orphaned at the age of one; Ginny, growing up in a noisy household peopled by six brothers and a perpetual procession of their friends, couldn't imagine how it must feel to be without the warm assurance of familial love. Even at eleven, she'd wanted to mother him, to create a place of warmth where he might feel secure.
In his sentimental fits, Harry told her that she looked rather like his mother, and she occasionally wondered whether that was what he sought in her. If so, it was ironic, she thought, since she was really not a very good mother. Oh, she loved Charlie, of course, with an intensity that was almost painful; she supposed almost all mothers did. But she'd never become reconciled to his growing up; never been able to cope as his feelings towards her transformed from the innocent adoration of childhood to the more critical viewpoint of a teenager. She couldn't bear her son to see her as a real person, with faults and blemishes, because if he knew what his mother had really been up to all these years, how could he possibly respect her?
She'd tried to end things with Harry a couple of times over the years, in an attempt to string her family back together. But her reformations had never lasted long, and each time that she'd gone back to Harry had been like a renewed betrayal of Charlie as well as Oliver.
Although Ginny had noticed Harry at the age of ten, it had taken him another eleven years to look at her in that light, by which time he had been married to Hermione, while she had been engaged to Oliver Wood, then a war hero and Quidditch star.
A combination of scruples and chance had prevented them from acting upon their impulses for a further three years. Their initial meetings had been miserable affairs, with both protagonists too racked with guilt (partly spurious on Harry's part, since he and Hermione were by now officially separated) to find much illicit pleasure in each other.
In her darker moments, Ginny wondered whether her surrender to Harry hadn't resulted from a twisted desire to be vindicated for her unrequited adolescent crush. It hadn’t taken her long to admit to herself that, on one level, it was simply amazing to be wanted by him, after she’d spent those three humiliating years mooning over him at school while he had barely thrown a glance in her direction. And in some ways, those early days, full of anguished anticipation, had meant more than the intermittent domesticity they'd since achieved.
Their meetings were now less regular than they had been in the early years, when Oliver's frequent away matches and punishing training schedule had given them ample opportunity. Ginny now had to capitalise on her own job as a consultant, using meetings and courses as excuses. They'd even asked Hermione - the only person, they hoped, who knew of their liaison - to cover for them once. She'd done it, but demanded that they not take liberties with her patience again; being Hermione, she'd also told them in no uncertain terms that they should stop acting like babies and make their relationship public. Ginny had found it difficult to meet her eyes since.
Tomorrow, however, things would be out in the open. Ginny was going to tell Oliver, and Charlie, and then she was going to leave Oliver for Harry. Charlie was away at school most of the year, but she hoped they'd be able to come to some sort of arrangement over sharing his holidays.
After tomorrow, she would be able to look upon Hermione as a friend again; at least, she hoped Hermione would provide some support. She sucked in her breath as her thoughts skittered through the possible outcomes of tomorrow. Oliver would be furious, hurt, heartbroken. They might not have slept together for years; they might be separated in all but name, but they were still limping along in their farce of a marriage, weren't they? Charlie would be upset, too, and would undoubtedly take Oliver's side. She had, after all, betrayed them both. She deserved everything she got from them, really.
And the press…the press would get hold of it, of course. She wasn't young enough for them to see it in a romantic light, and so she'd be portrayed as a horse-faced harridan who'd somehow bedded Harry Potter and then coerced him into standing by her. As for the fact that her husband was a well-known ex-Quidditch star and coach - well, they'd love that part, too.
She unwrapped her arms from Harry, and rolled onto her back, breathing hard, eyes closed. The next few days, possibly even months, were going to be horrible. She gulped mouthfuls of air, fists clenched by her sides, as she wondered whether she'd be able to face them. Whether she and Harry would emerge from this time, if not unscathed, at least able to live together at peace with one another.
She felt a hand on her stomach. Turning towards its owner instinctively, eyes still closed, she heard Harry mutter an indistinct "You're awake".
"Sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to wake you." She'd meant to speak quietly, but they'd been quiet for so long that her voice sounded almost insultingly loud.
He drew her into an embrace, and she clung to him, burying her face in his chest as she tried vainly to calm herself.
So often during their relationship, she'd been the one in charge. Initially, it had been a wonderful feeling to have Harry chasing her; there had even been some golden days when she'd believed she was merely flattered by his attention, and happily-ever-after in love with Oliver. She'd grown up, she'd thought, and schoolgirl crushes were for children. It had taken her three years to admit she might have been wrong - during which time Charlie had been born - and then she'd spent another year berating Harry for waiting until she was engaged to someone else before noticing her. For several more years, while Harry begged her to leave Oliver, she'd dithered, occasionally wondering whether perhaps it was her unattainability that attracted him. Well, if it was, she was about to find out.
She hated not being in charge; it was terrifying. It reminded her of childhood and helplessness and waking up in strange places covered in blood and feathers, and of a battered old diary that had nearly claimed her life. Powerlessness evoked the beguiling voice of Tom Riddle saying, "Why would Harry Potter ever like you, you boring, silly little girl?" as he watched her with those contemptuous eyes of his.
She'd made a decision, after her first year at school: she would never again let anyone have the upper hand over her. In class, she'd concentrated on learning the charms and hexes that ensured she could defend herself against most adult wizards and witches. Outside lessons, she'd developed a deadpan exterior that had fooled most people - most of the time - into thinking she was a perfectly normal girl, with no secret nightmares or horrific experiences in her past.
In retrospect, she couldn't believe people had fallen for it. But then, none of her friends had exactly had normal upbringings, had they? Perhaps they'd all been too engrossed in their own problems to notice other people's. As for her parents, they'd noticed, of course, and tried to get through to the old Ginny, but she wasn't having any of that, and eventually they gave up. They might even have believed the changes in her to be natural - it was perfectly possible that they really hadn't wanted to think too deeply about how Tom Riddle might have affected her. She wasn't sure she would be able to deal with the idea of him meddling with Charlie, who was now a couple of years older than she'd been when she'd fallen victim to Tom, only to be saved by the man now lying beside her in a rumpled bed in a remote bed and breakfast establishment.
In any case, tomorrow she was going to be vulnerable as she'd only been four times before in her life - and all of those four times had been concerned with Voldemort. This time, there was no Voldemort, only Harry and her and the need to make things right after fifteen years of wrongness.
Tomorrow would be horrible, and many days afterwards; she was aware of that. But at some point, some time in the future, there was a chance that she and Harry would be able to live together happily, if not in peace. She banished all thoughts of Oliver and - especially difficult - Charlie from her mind, and kissed her way up Harry's chest, around his neck and chin, to his lips. She'd thought he had dropped off again, but he responded readily enough, and perhaps he understood something of her need, because he kissed her back with an urgency that had only rarely been there during the past few years.
When they separated, breath quickening, they lay on top of the covers for a few moments, faces inches apart.
"Tonight's for us," Ginny whispered finally.
"Hmm?" Harry asked.
She hesitated, feeling silly, before reiterating: "Tonight's for us. I want to forget about tomorrow for a while."
He leaned over to kiss her eyes, her forehead, her nose, and finally, languorously, her lips again. When she opened her eyes, she found he was watching her seriously.
"I'm scared, too," he said. "Just so you know."
She leaned in for another kiss, and another, and then his tongue was working its way down to her breasts, flicking over her nipples until she moaned and arched up to kiss shoulder, arm, neck, anywhere she could reach him without disturbing the lovely things he was doing to her, and they gave themselves up to their lovemaking for the second time that night as if it was the last time they'd ever be together.
Afterwards, Harry dozed again, but Ginny remained awake, her gaze roving over Harry, the bed, the curtains, the clothes strewn over the floor.
She knew they'd be all right eventually, once everyone else got used to the idea of them being together. But just in case, she was going to remember every detail of tonight - every kiss, every whisper, every thought - to keep her going.
Hope you enjoyed this! The entire text of the poem, which is one of my favourites, can be found here.
Title: Not a Whisper
Challenge option: All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.
WH Auden - Lullaby
Summary: Ginny and Harry prepare to confront the wizarding world about their affair
Rating: PG-13 for sexual situations. If anyone thinks this should be upgraded to R, please let me know.
Genre: Romance/angst
Word count: 2738
Notes: Many thanks to mrs_muggle for doing a fantastic beta job again!
I'm happy to receive constructive criticism in this forum; however, if you'd rather do it privately, feel free to email me at lyras@livejournal.com.
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.
WH Auden - Lullaby
Harry sighed in his sleep, turned over, and burrowed into Ginny's back, wrapping his arms around her torso. As always, Ginny awoke at his touch and lay there for a few moments, relishing the sensation of his body curved around hers. He might be Harry Potter and a hero to most of the wizarding world, but for her he was simply Harry, the man she never saw enough of.
Slowly, quietly, she inched her body around until she was facing him, and he snuggled into her, his head gently resting on her forearm. She'd have to move that shortly, but for now let it lie there, pins and needles be damned.
It was a balmy June evening, and the flimsy curtains did little to darken the room which, only an hour earlier, had been bright with Scottish evening sunshine. In the gloom, Ginny could still trace the frown lines streaking across Harry's forehead. If she looked carefully, she could even see the faint crow's feet starting above his cheekbones. There were no laughter lines around his mouth yet, although perhaps they would come.
They were no longer young, she and Harry. People in the wizarding world had a longer life expectancy than Muggles - almost double in some cases - and yet in the past few years friends and relatives had started to fall away, victims of disease or simply old age. It was almost as if, with Voldemort gone, certain of those who'd fought so hard against him no longer had a reason to survive.
Her father, for one, who'd simply shrunk both mentally and physically over the course of several years, until he was merely a shadowy presence in the corner of the living room at The Burrow. The Healers hadn't been able to suggest a treatment, saying only that he was probably happiest at home. Muggle-born friends who had come to visit had looked serious and sad, murmuring words like "dementia" and "Alzheimer's" to one another. Finally, Arthur had slipped away, leaving his grieving family unsure whether they should be devastated or relieved.
There were others who had moved on, both literally and figuratively. Some Muggle-born friends had left the wizarding world, distrustful of a society that could produce so many people who wanted to kill them solely because of their parentage. Prominent among these had been an embittered Colin Creevey, his innocence finally shattered by the mutilation and murder of his younger brother, Dennis, by students apparently testing their limits after the death of Professor Dumbledore.
Ginny watched Harry through the darkening twilight and tried to imagine a world without him in it, without their stolen kisses and feverish, fumbling lovemaking in Muggle hotel rooms ranging from the seedy to the palatial.
She shuddered, and thought of an expression she'd learned from Colin Creevey. A goose walked over my grave. To banish the shadows that threatened to overwhelm her imagination, she wrapped her free arm around Harry's back, and concentrated on holding him. He responded by nuzzling her chest, and a wave of tenderness washed over her at the feel of his breath lightly grazing her cleavage.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, who'd defeated Voldemort, who'd survived a short, disastrous marriage to Hermione Granger, and who'd never since been romantically linked with anyone, although the press had done their best to remedy this for years. When he'd turned thirty, they'd more or less washed their hands of him, apart from the odd arch article implying he might be gay. Thankfully, Ginny and Harry had always - somehow - been circumspect enough in public to prevent anyone from suspecting their relationship.
At first, it had been Harry who'd wanted their affair kept secret; she'd been willing to face Oliver, go through any labyrinthine divorce process and endure vilification by the press, in order to be with him. But Harry had been worried about hurting Hermione by declaring his feelings too soon after their break-up. Privately, Ginny had felt that this was a pretty poor excuse, given that Hermione was one of the most sensible people she knew.
But by the time Harry was ready to commit, it was her turn to panic. Not now, she'd said, not this week, because Oliver's got an important match on Saturday. Gradually, her reasons had changed. I can't upset Charlie's routine; he's too young, he wouldn't understand. And he and Oliver love each other so. Perhaps next year. And then it was, not this year; perhaps when Charlie goes to Hogwarts. Or the next year, or the next one.
When? Harry had asked her, anguished, and eventually she'd had no answer for him. Perhaps she was simply afraid that making their relationship public would sound its death knell. Perhaps she'd loved him for so long, put so much of herself into him, that she was too frightened to put her devotion to the test. What if he, or she, or they, proved unworthy of all the effort they'd gone to, all the deception, all the people they'd hurt?
She shook her head in an attempt to dissipate her anxieties, and firmly turned her gaze back to Harry. A lock of his hair was tickling one of her nipples, and she fought back an impulse to kiss the top of his head. He'd had a long day; let him sleep.
Awkwardly, she gazed down over what little she could see of him. Black hair, still unruly after thirty-seven years. A long, white back; small love handles, the emergence of which she'd observed over the past few years.
She remembered how she'd adored him as a child, in that painful, all-consuming fashion that only very young lovers can muster. To her, he'd been an almost godlike figure - the child who'd defeated Voldemort - she'd been brought up on his story. And yet the sad aspects of his life had attracted her almost as much as his heroism. He'd been orphaned at the age of one; Ginny, growing up in a noisy household peopled by six brothers and a perpetual procession of their friends, couldn't imagine how it must feel to be without the warm assurance of familial love. Even at eleven, she'd wanted to mother him, to create a place of warmth where he might feel secure.
In his sentimental fits, Harry told her that she looked rather like his mother, and she occasionally wondered whether that was what he sought in her. If so, it was ironic, she thought, since she was really not a very good mother. Oh, she loved Charlie, of course, with an intensity that was almost painful; she supposed almost all mothers did. But she'd never become reconciled to his growing up; never been able to cope as his feelings towards her transformed from the innocent adoration of childhood to the more critical viewpoint of a teenager. She couldn't bear her son to see her as a real person, with faults and blemishes, because if he knew what his mother had really been up to all these years, how could he possibly respect her?
She'd tried to end things with Harry a couple of times over the years, in an attempt to string her family back together. But her reformations had never lasted long, and each time that she'd gone back to Harry had been like a renewed betrayal of Charlie as well as Oliver.
Although Ginny had noticed Harry at the age of ten, it had taken him another eleven years to look at her in that light, by which time he had been married to Hermione, while she had been engaged to Oliver Wood, then a war hero and Quidditch star.
A combination of scruples and chance had prevented them from acting upon their impulses for a further three years. Their initial meetings had been miserable affairs, with both protagonists too racked with guilt (partly spurious on Harry's part, since he and Hermione were by now officially separated) to find much illicit pleasure in each other.
In her darker moments, Ginny wondered whether her surrender to Harry hadn't resulted from a twisted desire to be vindicated for her unrequited adolescent crush. It hadn’t taken her long to admit to herself that, on one level, it was simply amazing to be wanted by him, after she’d spent those three humiliating years mooning over him at school while he had barely thrown a glance in her direction. And in some ways, those early days, full of anguished anticipation, had meant more than the intermittent domesticity they'd since achieved.
Their meetings were now less regular than they had been in the early years, when Oliver's frequent away matches and punishing training schedule had given them ample opportunity. Ginny now had to capitalise on her own job as a consultant, using meetings and courses as excuses. They'd even asked Hermione - the only person, they hoped, who knew of their liaison - to cover for them once. She'd done it, but demanded that they not take liberties with her patience again; being Hermione, she'd also told them in no uncertain terms that they should stop acting like babies and make their relationship public. Ginny had found it difficult to meet her eyes since.
Tomorrow, however, things would be out in the open. Ginny was going to tell Oliver, and Charlie, and then she was going to leave Oliver for Harry. Charlie was away at school most of the year, but she hoped they'd be able to come to some sort of arrangement over sharing his holidays.
After tomorrow, she would be able to look upon Hermione as a friend again; at least, she hoped Hermione would provide some support. She sucked in her breath as her thoughts skittered through the possible outcomes of tomorrow. Oliver would be furious, hurt, heartbroken. They might not have slept together for years; they might be separated in all but name, but they were still limping along in their farce of a marriage, weren't they? Charlie would be upset, too, and would undoubtedly take Oliver's side. She had, after all, betrayed them both. She deserved everything she got from them, really.
And the press…the press would get hold of it, of course. She wasn't young enough for them to see it in a romantic light, and so she'd be portrayed as a horse-faced harridan who'd somehow bedded Harry Potter and then coerced him into standing by her. As for the fact that her husband was a well-known ex-Quidditch star and coach - well, they'd love that part, too.
She unwrapped her arms from Harry, and rolled onto her back, breathing hard, eyes closed. The next few days, possibly even months, were going to be horrible. She gulped mouthfuls of air, fists clenched by her sides, as she wondered whether she'd be able to face them. Whether she and Harry would emerge from this time, if not unscathed, at least able to live together at peace with one another.
She felt a hand on her stomach. Turning towards its owner instinctively, eyes still closed, she heard Harry mutter an indistinct "You're awake".
"Sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to wake you." She'd meant to speak quietly, but they'd been quiet for so long that her voice sounded almost insultingly loud.
He drew her into an embrace, and she clung to him, burying her face in his chest as she tried vainly to calm herself.
So often during their relationship, she'd been the one in charge. Initially, it had been a wonderful feeling to have Harry chasing her; there had even been some golden days when she'd believed she was merely flattered by his attention, and happily-ever-after in love with Oliver. She'd grown up, she'd thought, and schoolgirl crushes were for children. It had taken her three years to admit she might have been wrong - during which time Charlie had been born - and then she'd spent another year berating Harry for waiting until she was engaged to someone else before noticing her. For several more years, while Harry begged her to leave Oliver, she'd dithered, occasionally wondering whether perhaps it was her unattainability that attracted him. Well, if it was, she was about to find out.
She hated not being in charge; it was terrifying. It reminded her of childhood and helplessness and waking up in strange places covered in blood and feathers, and of a battered old diary that had nearly claimed her life. Powerlessness evoked the beguiling voice of Tom Riddle saying, "Why would Harry Potter ever like you, you boring, silly little girl?" as he watched her with those contemptuous eyes of his.
She'd made a decision, after her first year at school: she would never again let anyone have the upper hand over her. In class, she'd concentrated on learning the charms and hexes that ensured she could defend herself against most adult wizards and witches. Outside lessons, she'd developed a deadpan exterior that had fooled most people - most of the time - into thinking she was a perfectly normal girl, with no secret nightmares or horrific experiences in her past.
In retrospect, she couldn't believe people had fallen for it. But then, none of her friends had exactly had normal upbringings, had they? Perhaps they'd all been too engrossed in their own problems to notice other people's. As for her parents, they'd noticed, of course, and tried to get through to the old Ginny, but she wasn't having any of that, and eventually they gave up. They might even have believed the changes in her to be natural - it was perfectly possible that they really hadn't wanted to think too deeply about how Tom Riddle might have affected her. She wasn't sure she would be able to deal with the idea of him meddling with Charlie, who was now a couple of years older than she'd been when she'd fallen victim to Tom, only to be saved by the man now lying beside her in a rumpled bed in a remote bed and breakfast establishment.
In any case, tomorrow she was going to be vulnerable as she'd only been four times before in her life - and all of those four times had been concerned with Voldemort. This time, there was no Voldemort, only Harry and her and the need to make things right after fifteen years of wrongness.
Tomorrow would be horrible, and many days afterwards; she was aware of that. But at some point, some time in the future, there was a chance that she and Harry would be able to live together happily, if not in peace. She banished all thoughts of Oliver and - especially difficult - Charlie from her mind, and kissed her way up Harry's chest, around his neck and chin, to his lips. She'd thought he had dropped off again, but he responded readily enough, and perhaps he understood something of her need, because he kissed her back with an urgency that had only rarely been there during the past few years.
When they separated, breath quickening, they lay on top of the covers for a few moments, faces inches apart.
"Tonight's for us," Ginny whispered finally.
"Hmm?" Harry asked.
She hesitated, feeling silly, before reiterating: "Tonight's for us. I want to forget about tomorrow for a while."
He leaned over to kiss her eyes, her forehead, her nose, and finally, languorously, her lips again. When she opened her eyes, she found he was watching her seriously.
"I'm scared, too," he said. "Just so you know."
She leaned in for another kiss, and another, and then his tongue was working its way down to her breasts, flicking over her nipples until she moaned and arched up to kiss shoulder, arm, neck, anywhere she could reach him without disturbing the lovely things he was doing to her, and they gave themselves up to their lovemaking for the second time that night as if it was the last time they'd ever be together.
Afterwards, Harry dozed again, but Ginny remained awake, her gaze roving over Harry, the bed, the curtains, the clothes strewn over the floor.
She knew they'd be all right eventually, once everyone else got used to the idea of them being together. But just in case, she was going to remember every detail of tonight - every kiss, every whisper, every thought - to keep her going.
Hope you enjoyed this! The entire text of the poem, which is one of my favourites, can be found here.