Harry opened the door. The room was dim, the only light coming from the high, scalloped window set off-center in the wall opposite. Wavy glass showed a twilight sky. The room was bare, the only furniture an old-fashioned claw tub in the corner and a small brass stand holding three sets of fluffy towels.
Ginny was in the tub, her red hair piled onto her head, a few loose strands darkened by the water and clinging to her neck.
There were no bubbles.
"Harry?" Her eyes were closed, her face blank.
He swallowed. "It's me."
She smiled and gently patted the water in front of her, creating not a splash but a series of ripples that traveled over her form all the way to her pink-painted toes. At least, he assumed they were pink. The room was gray, colorless, bleak. Gray stone walls and gray stone floor, gray lead outlining curved windowpanes, grayish towels on a cold metal stand. One white tub floating in the grayness, one fiery-haired witch floating in the tub.
"Harry?" She had opened her eyes; what little light was in the room reflected off them. He was the one fully dressed, but suddenly he felt naked. Vulnerable. Exposed.
She raised her brows, waited until he removed his cloak, then closed her eyes again. She spread her legs and raised her arms to the sides of the tub, making room for him. Her breasts swayed underwater.
He stripped quickly and crossed the room. Why, after everything they'd shared, did a simple bath feel like the most intimate thing he'd ever done? He hesitated, shot a quick look to make sure her eyes were still closed, and stepped in.
She felt the water lap her chin as he settled between her legs. "You're heavy," she complained, then immediately regretted her words when he sat up.
"No," she protested, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and drawing him back against her. His skin was warm and smooth. "I like it. It means you're really here." He was still resisting, so she slid her hands over his biceps, tight under her palms, and leaned forward, chest flattened against his back, to reach all the way down to his hands gripping the rim of the tub.
"Ginny," he breathed, and she didn't need to look over his shoulder to know he wanted her. She drew her knees up, cradling his lower body between her thighs, and he pushed back into her. Water lapped their shoulders. Wordlessly, Ginny pulled his hands free and coaxed him to lean back with her. He was heavy, but it was a good weight, solid and whole.
Gods, how she'd feared he wouldn't come back to her. Or that if he did, he would be empty inside, nothing more than shadow. She'd been more afraid of that than anything, of looking into his gorgeous green eyes and seeing him instead. Horcruxes! Ginny shuddered and was glad he hadn't told her. She'd never have survived the waiting, never have kept her own mind, if she'd known he was hunting bits of Tom's soul. She shivered again.
"Let me warm you," he murmured, stroking up her calf.
But she wasn't done with this yet, just the feel of him, strong and substantial against her. He had finally relaxed; his head rested against her shoulder, his hair tickled her ear, his breath fanned her neck. It was nearly dark now, only a faint gloaming visible near the ceiling. Her arms were under his, wrapped around him, rising slightly with every breath, every sign of life.
He was here; he was whole; he was enough.