There were several things Ginny Weasley could do with her eyes closed. She could cruise along on her broom, guided by nothing more than instinct and her finely-tuned spatial awareness. She could navigate the staircase of the Burrow in absolute darkness. She could tell which of her brothers was walking up behind her just by the distinctive thud and pace of their footsteps.
And with her eyes closed, she could read Harry Potter.
Harry had always been a fairly easy study. He had never been particularly good at hiding his emotions – his temper and brazen manner left little room for uncertainty. But in these past three weeks that they had shared together, Ginny had learnt to look beyond what was plainly visible, turning her attention instead to the subtlest of his quirks and mannerisms. And when she was pressed up against him with her eyes closed, her other senses truly awoke, picking up on the unspoken and the unseen.
The sound of his voice, steady with confidence, or stilted and hushed with an almost vulnerable uncertainty, betrayed more about him in those moments than his words ever could. The way his breath hitched just so each time she leant into his lips, as if he could never tire of kissing her. The way he sighed when their fevered kissing would ease and Ginny would tip her head, resting her forehead on his chest – it was a soft and shaky sound, a sigh born from an odd blend of contentment and something like trepidation. They were sounds that she felt as much as heard, each one filling her like a warm rush of blood that pulsed through her body, settling and expanding in her chest.
But while the sound of him was like a well-studied soundtrack, it was her hands and fingers that had learnt to read Harry Potter with expert certainty. She could read his mood and anxieties according to the tension in his muscles and the stiffness of his limbs, the way his body responded to her touch, and the fluidity of his movements against hers.
She would trail her fingers over his arm, his torso, his cheeks. Dancing a familiar path across his body, her feather-light touch would skim over his skin with the practiced confidence of a blind person reading braille, the twitch of his muscles and his goosebumps telling her a story of grief, longing, regret and fear.
And like many a narrative of love and loss, her reading of Harry had been hinting at a turning point in the days since Dumbledore's death. The signs, albeit subtle, were all there. They left a trail of crumbs that she couldn't bring herself to follow.
It put her even more on edge, nervous anticipation having settled heavily in her stomach. She had no way of knowing if it was the next scene, the next page, the next chapter when the twist that they were so clearly moving towards would drop. And in a way, she figured it didn't matter. What was to come had already been written, and nothing she did now would change it. She didn't believe it was fate, more an inevitability.
But Ginny's mind was firmly focused elsewhere on this early morning in June. Harry's hands had that ability, an unconscious way of commanding her attention. Even the stones of the tall castle wall jutting into her back were just a distant annoyance, drowned out by the feel of Harry leaning into her, his hands gripping her hips and waist.
He was quiet this morning. Both of them had woken early, sleep proving somewhat elusive these days. They were the first ones in the common room, but they hadn't lingered long, instead escaping out onto the castle grounds before the other students were due to start trickling into the Great Hall for breakfast.
Outside, the grounds were sleepy and calm, the early rising sun having done little to budge the thick fog that had settled over the lake. It was fitting in a way, the grounds of Hogwarts as unclear as everything else inside the castle.
With little interest in talking, Harry had led Ginny to a partially hidden alcove around the side of the castle, and immediately started kissing her. It was frenzied to begin with, Harry clearly chasing a distraction through her, but she didn't care. They stayed there, engrossed in each other, until Harry's lips and body became less frantic, and his kisses and touch eased to a slow and tender pace.
After several minutes, Ginny pulled away just enough to catch her breath. "Harry," she exhaled. It was still and quiet all around them, and Harry's heavy breaths next to her ear filled the void.
From inside came the first distant sounds of students moving about in the castle, muffled laughter and shouts as they made their way down the staircase to the Great Hall.
Harry looked down at Ginny, realisation etched on his face as if he had only just remembered where they were. "Oh, do you-" he started, straightening up. "Sorry. You probably want to go get some breakfast."
Ginny shook her head. "No. I'm not really hungry." She leaned into him, wrapping her arms around him. "Besides, I'd rather stay here with you."
She expected him to protest and insist she go in and eat before their classes begin. But he simply nodded in agreement, and bent down to kiss the top of her head.
She wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down further to place a kiss on his nose, his lips, and his stubbly chin. He responded by cupping her face in his hands, his thumb caressing her cheek.
"Ginny," he sighed. With eyes shut tight, he pressed his forehead to hers and let out a long shaky breath. And then, in a moment that would reverberate through both her dreams and her nightmares, came those words. "I love you, Ginny."
It was softer than a whisper, an utterance that could be felt more than heard.
She had heard those words her whole life, sometimes said as a reassurance or as a farewell, or through the gritted teeth of a chastised sibling. But never before had she heard those words said like this. It wasn't a declaration or a promise, it was something else entirely.
Ginny looked up at him, at his creased brow and pursed lips, and her breath caught in her throat. His face was streaked with pain and remorse.
Her voice quivered, the hint of a nervous laugh. "Why do you look like you're confessing a sin?" she asked, silently willing him to prove her wrong.
Instead, he opened his eyes and looked regretfully into hers. "I might as well be."
And it was this exact moment that Ginny realised the suspicion she had been pushing against so desperately these past few days was no longer simply a suspicion. Harry's admission told her everything she needed to know.
The regret she saw in his eyes wasn't for his words, but for all that they meant.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the knowledge from her mind, desperately trying to tamper the howling agony that was ringing in her ears. Placing her palms flat against his chest, she braced herself and exhaled slowly, forcing her heart rate to ease, attempting to take her time over every detail. Hoping against all reason that she could slow things down, delay the ending, just for a little longer.
And with the clarity of hindsight, she realised he had been doing the same. Ever since his mentor had died, Harry had been trapped in a restless cycle of indecision. He would tense under her touch, only to relent a moment later and melt into her. He was pulling away from her at the same time as he clung to her, like a drowning man grasping at the one thing that could keep him afloat.
Leaning back to look up at him, she ran her hands up his arms, her fingers skating over his shoulders, his collarbone, and coming to rest on his chest. His eyes remained fixed on hers, as if he too was trying to etch this moment into his memory, before his arms tightened around her, and he dragged her in closer. Ginny leant into it, allowing Harry to keep her braced. She should have felt nothing but safe, comfortable and certain, being here with him. But all she felt was the shudder and tremble of his still-grieving body wrapped around hers, and there was no comfort to be found in that.
Her heart ached for him. For the boy who had far too little choice afforded to him, and far too much expectation placed on him. For the boy who had experienced so much already, but wasn't yet done. For the boy who seemed to have finally found happiness, and was now trying to find the resolve to turn his back on it. Because yet again, it was up to Harry to do what was necessary.
You do it, a voice whispered in her head. You can break it off. Her eyes shot open, mind whirling with realisation. This was the one thing she could do for him, the one responsibility she could lift from his overburdened shoulders and carry herself.
She looked up at him. His head was bent forward, eyes fixed to where her small hands were pressed against his chest. And Ginny knew she couldn't. She would never be the one to walk away.
She couldn't look him in the eye, a boy who had known so much rejection and such little love in his life, and tell him it was over. Even if she knew it was the right thing to do.
Even if she knew what the alternative would mean for Harry.
Because while Harry was the protagonist of his story, turning his back on Ginny would make him feel like the villain. For as noble as he was, as selfless and kind as he was, he was still a boy who was terrified of letting anyone down.
If she was honest with herself though, she would have to admit that her reluctance was driven in part by a tiny but insistent piece of her that wondered if maybe she had read this wrong. That feared acting on something that perhaps wasn't inevitable. Even though the rational part of her knew better.
Coward, the voice in her head reproached. And she agreed.
Taking a deep breath, she drew up her shoulders and steadied her resolve. If she couldn't be the one to ring the death knell on their relationship, she could stand aside and let him do it. She would watch him walk away from her, and she wouldn't try to stop him.
But until then, she would be here with him, savouring him.
With steady hands, Ginny pulled Harry down towards her and captured his lips with hers. She wanted him to know that she understood. That she didn't blame him. That she didn't regret him.
But she had no words. She didn't even know if the right words existed. Instead, she poured it into her kiss and her touch. Let her lips, her tongue, her mouth say the things her voice couldn't. I'm sorry, her kiss said. I forgive you.
I love you.