Title: Unsaid
Rating: Um... Violence, sex, depressing thoughts, and other unlovely things ahead. R to be safe.
Summary: Ginevra Weasley was the one to watch them come together... all three of them. HP/GW/DM.
Author's Notes: Let me be clear about this now: this story is going to turn out to be Harry/Ginny/Draco, in a (hopefully) healthy relationship.
If you're looking for PWP involving lots of Ginny-having-sex-with-hot-boys or double-penetration threesomes, this is not your story. If you're squicked by polyamory, this is not your story. If you're a Ginny-basher and you think this is going to end in Harry/Draco... you're going to be disappointed. If you're a Harry/Ginny shipper til the end, you're probably not going to like my Ginny, because she's not a little girl and she's not a Mary Sue and she's not going to hero-worship Harry.
However, if you're not coming in with these expectations, you may just like this story.
Chapter One
She looks just like your mother, and you look just like your father. Isn't that a little... sick? Oedipal, even?
Malfoy is the only one ever to say such a thing out loud (the only one who ever would) and after he smirks Harry punches him hard across the face.
He stumbles and looks up, face bewildered and hurt for a moment and Ginny almost pities him, before he gathers the blood in his mouth and spits it at her feet. Then he turns and runs away, pale blond hair flying wildly.
Afterwards she mends Harry's knuckles - he still can't manage simple healing spells, and she finds it funny sometimes that the boy who defeated Voldemort can't deal with his own wounds - and as she mutters Episkey again and again she looks down past their joined hands. There is blood on her trainers.
Later that night she catches a glimpse of her and Harry in a mirror in the common room. Harry's face is still drawn and thin from the months of living off whatever he, Ron, and Hermione scrounged up on the run, his cheekbones sharp. A week after they returned to Hogwarts, they were sitting beside the Great Lake and Harry plucked a mushroom from between the grassblades and almost slipped it into his mouth. Ginny coughed and he jumped, startled; stared at his hand for a moment as if he didn't know it.
There are dark shadows under his eyes that make the green stand out sharply - Ginny knows he hasn't been sleeping, he wakes her up at two in the morning most nights now, finally done with sitting at Dumbledore's tomb (some nights, Snape's), slipping into the bed and under the blankets with barely a sound. They curl together like children and Ginny never dreams.
They all have their own rooms, the seventh years that left and came back. McGonagall isn't Dumbledore, by any stretch, but she is Mistress of the Castle. At the beginning of the year she added rooms off all the common rooms for them. Hermione, back straight and head held high, stepped forward and told McGonagall there would be no need to create two rooms for her and Ron, the defiant set of her face daring the Headmistress to argue.
Ginny has slept with Harry since the start of the year. She thinks, but isn't sure, that Luna has been in Neville's room most nights. Nothing has been said. There have been too many burials to make an issue of any small comforts.
She is the same height she was a year ago, but her face looks older and thinner. Her hair is the darkest it's ever been - the summer was spent, for many of the older students, helping to rebuild Hogwarts, physically and magically, and most of the work was inside. There's a thin pink line of a scar on her cheek from an angry Bowtruckle she met while helping roof Hagrid's new home. She is pale and her freckles are starting to fade.
They never stop touching each other (Harry squeezes her hand and she brings it up to her mouth to kiss it), even sitting there on the faded old sofa in front of the fire with Ron and Hermione and Neville and Luna around the hearth as well, as if afraid that something, someone could pull them apart still. She's noticed the others do the same. In the mirror her head is resting on Harry's shoulder, Harry's glasses white and gold with the reflection of the flames.
Later, while Harry sits outside under the dark sky, keeping vigil, she pulls an old shoebox from under the bed - their bed - and finds a photo of Lily holding Harry, James standing by her. Both of them are smiling at Harry - she struggles to think of the plump, laughing baby as the boy she knows.
She and Harry look nothing like his parents. If anything they look too jaded, too weary, too afraid.