Discalimer: Not Jo Rowling, don't sue me.
A/N: my soul craved some Ginny/Harry angst—because it too is insane—and this came about. Ginny PoV, second person narration, post-HBP, no real spoilers, Harry/Ginny and some references to sex. Read, enjoy, let me know what you think.
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You envisioned it for months and it was nothing like this.
Your dreams were lined in moonlight and silver and this is nothing like that. This is rushed and tragic and he whispers that he loves, loves, loves you, and you wish he would stop. And even though you can't be a thousand percent sure of it, your heart wrenches against your chest because it's no small part of you that is labeling this his good bye.
"I love you Ginny."
It's the only sound in the silence.
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It could have been different.
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You pull him into a dark corner at the top of the stairs, hidden in the shadows of your doorway.
You touch his arm and he shivers beneath your hand despite the summer heat that hangs around you as impenetrable as the quiet.
"Stay." You say, and it is not a question, it is a plea and no matter much you hate the feel of it in your mouth you repeat it again and again and again because you know that there is strength in numbers even if he sometimes decides to forget. "Stay." You say because despite all his secret keeping he doesn't have the same knack for lying that you do and you know that he's leaving, no matter how tight lipped he and Hermione and your brother think they are.
You ask him to stay and some part of you vaguely entertains the possibility that he will.
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He asks you to dance and he kisses your shoulder so gently you think you've imagined it until it's his forehead resting in the place he's lips were.
He tells you that he loves you so softly that you almost don't hear and a part of you wishes you hadn't because all the stony walls you have spent the summer constructing are powerless against those three words and your face crumples against his neck.
You ask him then, in a small voice that feels entirely too young to be asking for such things—to take you with him, hoping that for love of you he will realize that there is no life for you in waiting.
You want him to see that and take you away. You can save the world together, you tell him and he frowns against your shoulder as the music spins around you.
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He pulls you into your father's shed and he kisses you with such force that your head spins and you can't breathe. You push at him, but he stands firm and you feel any form of resistance melt like the marrow in your bones because he needs this. A dying man's last hope, you think.
And when at last he pulls away you can see the sadness in his eyes despite the darkness and his breathing is uneven.
He's afraid and you hold him, both of you remaining silent. There are no words for the moment.
He does not want to die and you wish then that you did not love a martyr.
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He grabs your arm as you walk into the kitchen and you shake him off, angry.
"I don't know the stories Harry." You say because it is the only thing that comes mind, suddenly all important as you realize that despite your time together you know no more of him now than you did when he was merely Harry at arm's length. "Why don't I know the stories?" you ask and he doesn't say anything.
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He slips into your bed room and your surprise cannot be hidden. He sits on your childhood bed, a respectable distance between you—because he says that no matter what, he's decision stands and its simply not possible for the two of you to be together now (you want to tell him there might not be a later but you refrain because it seems like too low a blow no matter the circumstances)—and he spends the night talking.
And you listen, asking the occasional question, taking it all in. Some stories you know and others are new and most are unimaginable and he ends it all by tells you that he's the only one who can defeat the dark lord, because destiny's bound him and you don't bother telling him that you figured as much.
The sky outside the window is grey by the time there is nothing left to say and you find there is only one remaining question on your mind. "Why now Harry?"
He stands, a silhouette framed by the pre-dawn light, and you can't make him out beyond that.
"Because," he starts and, you can hear the struggle he makes with every word that slips past his lips, "you had the right to know. Because I wanted you to."
You hope he always will.
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They disappear a fortnight after the wedding and you find the note not a day later, tucked inside a book on top of your trunk.
'Don't wait for me.' It says and you tell yourself you never planned to.
You're a terrible liar.
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It could have been different, but the truth is it isn't.
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He leaves at first light, slipping out of your childhood bedroom with only a kiss on you forehead and I love you in his mouth.
You feign sleep because you do not want to break now, not after everything and you wait until you are sure he is gone, gone, gone before opening your eyes. Your fingers trace a flower on your sheets—the spot holding none of his warmth—faded pink sheets that your mum embroidered herself, sheets that now smell of sweat and him and you and sex (it's a scent you never associated with this room or this house but now its there and you find it overwhelming).
You doubt there's a cleaning charm strong enough to get rid of all that, settling for changing them instead, carefully folding them and tucking them away in the far corners that exist beneath your bed, where even Mum will not find them. After ward you lie down again, and the stagnant summer heat begins to settle on the house, seeping in though windows and floor boards.
There is silence now and you wish you had told him that you loved him.
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End
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Feedback is Love