Title: Love Like Laughter (1/4)
Author: Cinderalex
Summary: Ginny and Harry Get-Together (Again) Fic. Post Voldemort and Post Hogwarts.
Genre: Romance
Author's Note: This is a finals week presents to all my friends suffering through hell with me, but most especially to Matt who's the biggest Ginny fanboy I know. For the record, I've been working on this for three months and it is complete. Kate just wanted something to look forward to, so I'm posting it in four parts.

Dean is saying something to Ginny, whispering something into her ear, something that makes her laugh raucously, throwing her head back, her body shaking until her eyes are full of tears. Still, laughing, she whispers something back to Dean, making him laugh as well. And suddenly they are clutching each other's shoulders, foreheads pressed together, wheezing.

With her lips only inches from Dean's, she sees Harry, standing in the doorway, watching them, and blushes, but does not look away from him. Her smile freshens, the corners of her mouth turning all the way up again.

"Harry! You'll be wanting that report."

Dean moves away, but not very far away, eying Harry somewhat suspiciously. Really, Harry can't blame him, he had interrupted a moment. Then again, Ginny was working for him and she shouldn't be having moments in the middle of the day. She should be handing in reports. She should be researching for her new assignment. She should be making field contacts, in order for everything to flow smoothly.

"Hi, Dean. I wasn't aware you would be stopping by today."

Dean nods politely. "Ginny and I had a lunch date scheduled, but at the last minute she owled to cancel. Too much work. So I brought lunch to her." He gestures to the Chinese take-out littering Ginny's desk.

"I invited Dean in order to ask him to sketch your description of Goyle Animagus, so I would have an easier time tracking him. He's agreed, of course." Ginny explains quickly, still flushing guiltily.

"That's wonderful. Thanks, Dean. When's a good time?" Harry realizes he is still looking at Ginny, even as he speaks to Dean, and looks away to focus on the papers Ginny is handing him, instead of on either of their faces.

"Tomorrow. At your office. Around ten?"

"Okay." Harry doesn't feel a need to prolong the conversation, and turns to leave. "Ginny," he adds, hand on the doorknob, "you don't have to sacrifice your lunch for work. Go out whenever you want." With whomever you want. But he doesn't say it, in part because he wouldn't mean it.

"Ginny?" She starts, looking up from his hands, which are folded atop his desk. Sometimes she forgets that she is supposed to listen when he talks, what with him being not just her boss, head of her Auror unit, but also Harry Potter. Sometimes she forgets that she isn't supposed to lose herself in fantasies of all the things those large Quidditch callused hands could do to her.

"Yes?"

He smiles, shaking his head. "You haven't heard a thing I've said."

He knows, she thinks, hoping it is not as terrible a thing as the butterflies in her stomach seem to indicate. "I was a bit distracted."

"I can tell." The bitterness behind the comment isn't reflected on his face, and confuses Ginny, until, "Dean stopped by this afternoon?"

Ginny's eyes widen. If she didn't know better, if she hadn't spent four years imagining just this moment, if she didn't know exactly how Harry felt about visitors in his office, Ginny might think Harry is jealous.

Their eyes meet, his still questioning, waiting impatiently for her answer. He is jealous. "I heard what you said, about the high-pitched whine of Goyle's Animagus, I missed the rest because I was thinking about your hands." She smiles saucily, trying her best not to blush, as if she could control such things.

"My hands?" He looks taken aback, surprised and disbelieving.

"You've smudged ink along–" –she runs a finger gently along the outside of his right pinky– "–here." Watching her hand withdraw from his, Harry swallows and runs his left hand through his hair.

"Yes. I was–" He pauses and she feels laughter rise up, bursting out in the form of a giggle.

She's making herself sick. What the hell does she think she's doing? Harry is her boss. He'd made it clear years back that he had no interest in rekindling something that for him had burnt out with the last remnants of Voldemort's soul. He doesn't want her, doesn't need her, not anymore, as anything but a coworker. She needs to leave, get as far away from Harry as possible.

"I'm supposed to meet–" Harry holds a hand up, cutting her off, eyes traveling down her as she rises.

"No need to share your social schedule. Have a wonderful evening."

Ginny curses herself all the way out of the office, partly for allowing herself to flirt with Harry so outright and partly for not inviting him to pub with her this evening.

Ginny sits at her desk, presumably wrapped up in research, drumming her fingers rhythmically against her thigh to the music blaring on the wireless. Her hair is down, tumbling messily about her shoulders and every so often she reaches up to brush it out of her eyes. Harry thinks his Watch-Ginny-Work obsession is probably inappropriate. His Keep-Ginny-From-Having-A-Social-Life obsession is probably worse. However, he has no inclination to stop acting on either.

The song changes and Ginny begins to hum along with the music, loudly. Her singing voice is only mediocre which surprises him as he also has a Listening-to-Ginny's-Floo-Conversation-Just-To-Hear-The-Sound-Of-Her-Voice obsession. The effect her speaking voice has on him is very different than the effect of her singing voice.

"Hi." He says, more to stop her singing than because he has anything to say to her.

Startled, she whirls to face Harry, one hand behind her back groping, he assumes, to turn off the wireless. "Harry! Are you trying to scare me to death?"

"No." She's blushing brightly and still hasn't managed to find the off switch. With a hiss of frustration, she turns back around and the song cuts off abruptly. "I was wondering if you were hungry."

"So..."

"So."

"How've you been?"

"You already asked me that."

"I'm sorry. It's just..."

It's tiring to watch him attempt conversation, especially when she, too, has no idea what to say, what they can share. Directness, she decides, is the best approach. "Why did you ask me out, today?"

He sips his tea unsteadily, eyes fixed on her sandwich. He swallows, still not looking up, murmurs, "I missed you."

"Me? You missed me?" She doesn't believe him. His life has been too busy. He should not, could not, have had time to miss anyone, least of all her. He sees her everyday. And then, he looks up, finally, and catches her gaze, his green eyes searching hers. Their glassiness implies that maybe, just maybe, he's telling the truth. He looks away again. The certainty, or rather the hope of certainty, she felt a second ago disappears abruptly without the reassurance of his almost tear-filled eyes.

He smooths his hair. It is a habit from school, and it reminds her that he is still a boy, still the boy that she fell in love with whenever it was that she first saw him. "Yes."

"Yes?" She's forgotten if she asked a question. She might not have, and he might be answering a question that she hadn't asked. He did seem very distracted.

He smiles, but only half-way, and shakes his head. "Never mind. What have you been up to lately? How's work?"

"Harry. We work in the same department. You know exactly how work is going. You're my goddamn boss. You've read all my reports."

"You're right, I suppose," he agrees, turning his attention to the soup sitting in front of him, probably cold after sitting untouched for these last few minutes, which had been longer than hours.

Maybe if they both finished their meals quickly, they could return to the office, pretending this disaster had never happened. But Harry is eating very, very slowly, really pushing the potatoes in soup around more than eating them.

"Harry, my fifth year, your sixth year, that was a very long time ago."

He nods, stirring already cold soup contemplatively. He's not going to make this any easier on her.

"Do you want...?" She regrets saying it immediately. His head snaps up and he stares at her, his face impassive, his eyes alight. When he bites his lip, she knows he's confused, trying to decide something.

"No." He says finally, not sounding confused at all. He looks at his watch. "You should be back at work by now."

Normally, Ginny would shoot back something witty and flirtatious about her blaming her boss, but she's too angry. She would never have guessed that Harry would have the gall to invite her out, toy around with her, buy her lunch, and let her think that maybe, just maybe they could have something. Her palms itch. She should smack him.

Except that he's frowning, puzzled and worried. "Ginny, I want to be friends with you again. It's uncomfortable working with you and remembering how close we were once. I do miss you." His hand is in his hair again. "What are you doing on Friday night?"

Friends. He wants them to be friends. His eyes search hers, their color enchanting, and she knows she won't ever be able to look at him without remembering how they were once more than friends. Her eyes move to his lips, which are drawn into a wide, nervous line. "I'm going on a date with Dean. To the Tornadoes' match."

He raises his eyebrows, and she immediately regrets the lie. Well, it isn't quite a lie. She just hadn't planned on actually accepting Dean's invitation. "You should come. And bring what's-her-name."

"Maybe." But he's not looking at her anymore. He's rising to pay.

Review, please.