Blazing Days

by TheGreySpecies

Ginny is feeling sentimental, so she does the only thing she could think of: invite Harry in for a cuddle. Major fluff warnings. H/G. Canon Pairings.

"Oh, Ginny, this room's a mess, dear –"

"I'm getting to it, Mum," she waved her off, her voice a bit muffled from the wand that she had gritted between her teeth. "Don't let it worry you."

A warm yellow light bathed the room from the several candles lit up by her mother and were floating around, often following her and bouncing about behind her. Ginny stood over her desk, a wand between her lips, a pile of unopened and half-opened boxes of belongings littered all around the room, some overturned, some spilling contents, while Ginny balanced herself on one foot, shoving the stack of boxes in her arms higher with her other knee, and letting them tumble on the desk, huffing, her braid spilling loose locks of red hair into her face, which made her look more flustered than necessary, as she swiped a hand against her forehead, beads of perspirations collecting on her forehead from working for nearly three hours.

Molly watched her, clearly ambivalent and very much on the verge on marching in the room to relieve her daughter the burden of having to unpack her belongings on her own.

She was dressed in chestnut robes that reached to her ankles, a green Holyhead Harpies scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, and a tightly wound braid that appeared to be losing its strain by the seconds and started to tumble around a pretty and pale freckled face. And it was only because her mother was around that she wisely refrained from cursing out loud.

But in spite of the clear disheveled appearance, her daughter was looking quite bold and alert in spite of the horrible lateness of the hour. It was nearly ten at night, but her daughter was still bustling around the room with an energy that suggested that perhaps the sun had come out early, her face glowing with happiness and seemed to have brought a strange light to the room with her gregarious and chatty disposition that had clearly been stifled in her absence. Yet Ginny could not seem to contain herself from basking in the warmth and company, especially now that she had returned to her family.

And her mother undoubtedly felt every bit of that overly blithe nature, knowing that her often sociable daughter had felt a bit deprived of company in her absence.

Her mother huffed out a breath, every inch of her radiating with disapproval. "I suppose I should chide you for starting to unpack this late."

"Not my fault you and dad are very distracting," she called from across the room. "I could've started much earlier if you hadn't invited me down for tea nearly every hour."

Molly could not concoct a proper retort and settled for a small "hmph."

"But it does bring things into perspective, doesn't it?" said Molly, sitting down on the bed and reaching to fold the array of robes that lay on the bed. "It's definitely brighter in here – and warmer."

"Feels less like a graveyard, doesn't it?"

Molly beamed at her. "You're certainly a force of nature."

Her daughter grinned.

"I heard you've been passing out gifts to everyone," Molly made a great impression of trying not to sound proud. "Nearly every week. And Chocolate Frogs as well," she added a bit sternly.

Ginny thrust open the door of her wardrobe and let the pile of clothes fall from her arms down to the floor.

"Well, now that I've been getting my own paycheck," she said. "I haven't really decided how to spend it," she rose to her feet, brushing off her robes. "It's all very strange, isn't it? I never imagined I'd ever end up with a problem like this one."

"I'm sure you'll find something productive to spend it on."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Thanks, Mum."

Feeling bold, she turned to her mother with hands on her hip, her face blazing with a sudden determination. "And now that I'm back, I'm going to make sure the lot of you are supporting the Harpies this year."

"You're alone in trying to convince your brothers," said Molly quickly.

"Oh, I'll convince them," she vowed. "With a hex or two."

"Ginny!"

"I'll wait until you've turned your back or something," called Ginny, now walking over to hoist a large lamp above a stack of boxes to toss them in her wardrobe.

"Really," shrilled Molly. "You could do with a little less trouble," Ginny rolled her eyes and resumed her totter, ducking behind the stack of boxes that she was hoisting, the broken lamplight at the top wobbling in place. But Molly was quick to her feet. "And – be careful with that, oh, you're going to burn your eyes – and, oh, let me help you, dear –"

"Mum, shut up for a bit, will you?"

Molly watched her daughter hoist her belongings and carry them to her wardrobe, a worried look on her face; and she did, successfully in spite of her small and petite frame that gave the impression that she was quite delicate.

"But don't you think –" she began, unable to resist.

"No," she said firmly, wrenching her mother's hand from the desk and guiding her away. "This is my mess, I'll clean it. You get some rest, I heard Andromeda's coming tomorrow –"

"Oh yes, I've invited her tea – and Teddy, too. And," she stopped in her tracks and threw a worried glance at her daughter. "You've grown fond of Teddy, haven't you?"

"Of course –"

"He's been asking about you," she ran a hand through her daughter's hair lovingly, eyes tearing up a bit. Ginny forced back a smile. "Every week he comes by, but Harry keeps him company – visits him nearly three times a day now –"

Her heart sank at the mention of Teddy's godfather.

"I'm sorry."

Her mother gave a tremulous smile and a large sniff before reaching over to pull her into a tight embrace, and Ginny returned it with the same bit of fervor.

For about a year and a half, she had been living in a flat near the Quidditch pitch, cut off from her family and the ribaldry and rigmarole of petty family drama. She had even missed the births of her nieces and nephews and the weddings of some of her brothers, but no one had accused her or held her responsible; and although they had supported her, she had to admit that she had loathed every minute of it. Not entirely used to a quiet and unflustered life, a part of her wished that someone had dragged her back – back home . . . because the Burrow was her home. She much preferred the boisterous bustle and chaos of the Weasleys than the taxing and lonely silence of her flat.

She had to admit . . . she had been feeling quite lonely ever since, which was why, much to her mother's delight, she had ditched her flat and moved back into the Burrow, offering company to her parents who were greying fast and much too eager for company, her father losing nearly all of his lingering hairs.

Her mother pulled back and gave her arm a small pat. "I'm glad to have you back, dear."

"It's good to be back," smiled Ginny. "Now I'm here for good, I promise," she picked up her robes from where they had been lying on her bed and hung them over her arm. "And no funny business about a messy room. I've learned adult-ing, Mum."

Her mother smiled. "And how was the experience?"

"Dreadful," she replied. Her mother laughed. She shook her head and moved towards her wardrobe to hang her robes. "Got used to cooking myself, and starving myself some days –"

"Oh, dear," her mother clapped a hand to her mouth in horror.

"Only joking," she laughed. "I've learned a few tricks, though, I think I've got it down – it's nothing on your cooking, though, Mum."

Her mother smiled in kind. Eager for company, Ginny moved to the bed and plonked herself down beside her mother. "Can you imagine," she threw herself back against the mattress. "me doing domestic work?"

Her mother lifted her braid that been laying beside her head and ran a hand through the red tresses at the ends. "Oh, I can imagine that very clearly," she said, a strange gleam in her eyes. "Now that you've learned to wash your own clothes –"

Ginny groaned and quickly tried to repair the damage said. "Oh come on, don't look at me like that, I was joking –"

"And I think Harry would agree –" her mother added.

"I get it," she said louder to deflect the subject. "This house's been robbed of humour since I've left." She pointedly and wisely avoided to say Fred and George, and her mother was too excited to notice anything.

"But you've returned," gushed her mother. And Ginny shook her head and moved to her feet to resume her work. "And I trust you've wisely chosen my only son-in-law, and I'll hold you responsible if you go around breaking his heart –"

"He's already your son," she said, rolling her eyes. "And – hey, wait a moment," she turned to her mother with disbelief. "You would side with Harry over your own daughter?"

"My only daughter," she nodded without hesitation. And Ginny felt a twinge of amusement and resentment at the reply. "He's certainly sweet enough to deserve a bit of a special treatment."

"Hm," Ginny could not conjure a proper retort at that comment. "Where is he, anyway?" she asked, trying not to sound too keen. Her mother's smile faded abruptly. "Shouldn't he be off of work by now?"

"Off to visit his cousin," her mother said stiffly.

Ah, mused Ginny. So that was she was gushing over Harry. And suddenly, she didn't feel at all resentful anymore.

Harry's family had always been a delicate subject for the Weasleys, and Ginny only vaguely knew why. Harry seemed reluctant to share the information with anyone, be it Ron, Hermione, her, or her mother, opting instead to change the subject anytime it cropped up and omitting any details when prodded. And she never had the desire to make him uncomfortable or more worried than necessary, so she never prodded it out of him, opting instead to respect his privacy, and perhaps he would eventually tell her when he was ready. Hence, the only thing that she knew was that there was a contentious relationship between him and his family.

"We're the only ones he's got left," Molly went on, sounding a bit fervent. "Take good care of him, will you?"

"I always do," she said softly. "And I'm sure he'd do the same for me," she added at her mother's crestfallen look.

Molly looked up and managed to conjure a shaky smile and reached up to hug her again; and this time, Ginny only half-heartedly returned it.

Her mother withdrew, eyes tearing a bit as it always did when the subject of family cropped up, and patted her on the cheek. "I'm sure you've missed your boys," she sniffed.

Ginny spluttered. "My boys?"

Scowling at her mother's glazed look, she tugged on her arm and quickly guided her out of the door. "Bye, Mum, have a nice day, get a bit of rest, you need it more than I do – and give Dad a kiss for me, will you?"

"Of course –"

"Right," she smiled and slammed the door shut, leaning against the back and blowing out a breath.

"Get this room cleaned up," her mother yelled.

"I will," she yelled back.

She stood there against the door, listening to the footfalls of her mother treading downstairs before she let out a sigh of relief. Only then did the reminder of her mother's implications hit her like a Bludger into the ribs.

My boys.

In spite of herself, her heart gave a traitorous flutter at the thought, as it often did when little Teddy often frequently shifted his appearance to match his godfather's, and he sat between her and Harry, eyes green as a lily-pod, and black dark as coal, giving her that fleeting glimpse of a small family, shared with a particular Seeker who was always chasing a Snitch that rarely included herself, whom she had to drag forcibly to the ground in case he drifted too far –

Her eyes glazed a bit, not unlike her mother's just moments ago, and a wild and excited smile came to her face, and just when she had submitted herself to the thought, she caught herself quickly, flushing furiously, her heart burning with longing that perhaps those dreams were a bit too stretched for a pair as wild and tumultuous as they were –

Aware that she was acting a bit soppy for her own taste, she started a bit at the whipping sound that suddenly filled her otherwise tactiturn room.

She whipped around, wand in hand, at the sound of boots landing against the floor only to find a tall and slender figure just in front of the open window and just dismounting his broom, looking quite windswept, black hair untidier than usual, as he casually turned to let it lean against the wall, as if this was nothing more than a daily occurrence, having him here, right in the center of her room, green eyes glowing brilliantly against dark attire –

Which was definitely not the case.

"Nice reflexes," he nodded at the wand pointed at him.

"Hi," she said with a bit of wonder in her voice and slowly lowered her wand, unable to tear her eyes from him.

He turned and loped with an easy smile and no trace of awkwardness in his expression, which was, in a sense, a huge relief to her, and a casual grace by the way his hands tucked in his pockets.

"Hi."

Perhaps it was divine irony that the main subject of her thoughts was here, only a few feet away, with all the control to seize and settle her worries provided that he made the next step forward . . . The separation had done nothing to dim her longing but magnified it by tenfold.

Yet she could not help but admire: he looked younger than usual without his work robes and laid-back for twenty-one, if not a bit tired as well, dressed in a black buttoned-up coat and black jeans.

There was something familiar about the easy way that he carried himself that drew her attention, as if nothing in the world was worth fretting about, and there was something almost dry, almost wry, about the way he looked at her, as if sharing an inside joke with her.

At least, that was what he looked like to her.

"You're back," she said brightly, feeling as though the room had gotten a lot lighter now that he was here. "How did your meeting with your cousin go?"

The wry look faded off of his face. He suddenly looked grim and a bit uncomfortable, tugging at the lapel of his coat.

"Er . . ."

"That doesn't sound good," she noted with amusement.

He gave a prominent grimace. "Well," he shifted on his feet, looking reluctant to explain what had happened. "If you must know . . ."

"Yeah . . .?" she pressed, eager to hear what had led to this very surly-looking and very grim-faced Harry.

He gave her a grudging look before thrusting his hands in his pockets. "It was a complete fiasco," he admitted with an audible sigh.

"That bad?"

"My aunt and uncle were there," he explained irritably. "They don't like me very much," he explained at her puzzled look.

Resisting the urge to hex something, she waved a dismissive hand. "Who wouldn't like you?"

He gave a tight-lipped smile. "Well, there's quite a few of them, in fact. Quite a lot, come to think of it," he abrogated after a pause.

"None of them in this room, I hope," she added innocently. He gave a short laugh, looking grateful by the light tone.

"Well, if it's any comfort to you," she reached into her robes to pull out an unwrapped Chocolate Frog that she had bought upon traveling and thrust it at him. "At least you've got the Weasleys."

He caught it with the skill of a Seeker, looking relaxed, mood lighter than before. "And someone to bring me Chocolate Frogs every night," he grinned up at her. "Thanks."

"Whatever stops you from sulking," she added, moving towards her desk, a bit uplifted now that he had done just that and was looking happier and relaxed now; and she supposed that perhaps her own expression mirrored his own. The room started to feel like Christmas had come early.

It had been a running joke between her brothers that she often devoted her entire collection of Chocolate Frogs to Harry. Inspired by the thought, since he often shunned her attempts to gift him anything and refused to tell her what he wanted for a particular holiday or occassion, she started her own tradition: every night in the mail, be it with a letter or no letter, she sent a Chocolate Frog to him. And even when sometimes he didn't or couldn't respond, the stack of whatever he had left was waiting for him when he returned to his study at Grimmauld's Place.

"Well, there is an easier solution," he said, stepping back and watching her rummage under her desk. "And less expensive," he added after a thought, unwrapping the box in his hand.

"I'm listening," she called, emerging from under the desk with an audible huff and blowing a few strands of her hair out of her face.

He shot her a furtive glance and made a careful effort not to look at her. "Next time I could just . . . take you along."

Contrary to what he thought, she caught the comment and kept her head ducked over her boxes to hide a grin. This time, she made an extra effort to busy herself, rising to her feet and stacking the myriad of books that lay on her desk to move them towards her shelf, a spring in her steps, bolstered immensely by the comment. She felt that she might start bouncing off the wall.

But she was an adult. So instead, she did what she did best: make a pointed effort not to get him to sense that she was watching him.

With a rakish and almost unperturbed air, he turned to lean back against the wall beside her desk, right beside where he had set aside his broom, and away from the light of the half-moon that ran slanted through the room, legs crossed at the ankle, hair darker than usual in the absence of light –

Not that she had noticed, of course . . .

But then the sound of his voice pierced through her thoughts.

"Well, you're oddly friendly to a bloke that just burst through your window."

He glanced up at her, green eyes sharper than usual; and it was with a bit of resentment that she noted that his glasses had slid so far down his nose that both of his eyes were on stark display and were pinning her to the spot.

For a moment, she stared at him, puzzled by his expected look. Then, her eyes dawned in understanding when she caught the small badge with the letter A at the lapel of his coat.

"Oh, right," she rolled her eyes. "What's the shape of your Patronus?"

He took the last bite off of the Frog and threw the wrapper in the bin in the corner.

"A stag."

Tossing back her hair, she lifted a brow. "You're sure that's a security question? It's not as if no one knows about it."

He made a brisk shrug. "There's not much they don't know, to be honest," he pointed out, too unruffled in her opinion. "And your room's quite open to strangers, don't you think?" He gestured at the open window.

She shot him a sweet smile. "Only the spectacled ones."

She made a great impression of her sister-in-law by whipping back her hair, and waltzing and humming to where boxes of her belongings were scattered on the floor, waiting to be unpacked, and flung herself down with a sigh to the task.

She busied herself, not at all impervious to her visitor who was leaning an elbow against on the top of her small bookshelf, looking quite entertained by a spot on the floor. Every so often, he threw furtive glances at the open window, and she knew that he was thinking about his easy fly into her room and her lack of security wards around the Burrow. But she said nothing, knowing that he would not hear her, anyway, especially with that distant look on his face that implied that he was very much lost in thought.

Tapping his wand against his leg, he finally voiced his thoughts. "You don't mind if I make a few changes around here, do you?"

She shrugged, not turning to look at him. "Suit yourself."

Of course, if her safety comforted him . . . Why, she rather thought she was more touched by his concern than the actual wards.

He straightened, seemingly bolstered by the permission and moved further towards the edges of the room.

And something like a light switch lit up over her head. She threw a furtive glance at him, knowing that he was too much of a noble git to refuse her.

"Er . . . Harry?"

So engrossed in his task, he did not immediately reply. She watched him execute complex wand movements around the room before she made to repeat his name.

"Mind giving me a hand back here?" she called from her kneeling position beside her wardrobe. "When you're through, that is."

He paused in the midst of stowing his wand away and nodded. With a bit of frustration, she tucked back several loose strands from her hair behind her ear only to look up at the click of boots against the floorboards.

"Think you can Levitate these to my desk?" She gestured to the stack of half-opened boxes in front of her.

He nodded again.

With a rush of gratitude and a stab of pain at the familiarity of his responses, she resumed her unpacking, although she could not help studying him behind her eyelashes; and it was perhaps fortunate that he seemed entirely impervious to her furtive glances: she watched him pick up a torn book on the floor and sift through it, eyebrows knitted together, and eyes shrewd and scanning in a manner that was all too familiar . . . and she briefly wondered why her relationship with him, strong as though it was, always ended up in a reluctant separation . . .

Shaking her head out of her thoughts, she resumed her unpacking, thinking, perhaps, that this time, it was her decision to part from him. And whatever resentment she had was purely her own doing . . .

But she certainly didn't miss the fact that he had not held her responsible, nor was there even a hint of impatience or resentment or a desire to replace her after all the time that they had spent apart. He had offered to wait, and he had kept his word, it seemed. And she had to duck her face behind her hair to hide her smile.

"What is all this?"

His voice jostled her out of her thoughts. Sighing, she tossed her old Quills in the bin in the corner and reached out to unfold her old school robes.

"Souvenirs," she replied simply. "From my childhood," she added at his questioning look. "I used to be a kid, you know."

He had the decency to look surprised. "You failed to mention that."

"I know," she sighed, tossing her old robes aside to rummage through her box. "Who knew the old Ginny Weasley could make a house elf like Kreacher look tall?" She held up one of her tiny white blouse that looked about the size of a toe-rag and eyed it with a grimace. "You met her, didn't you?"

"First time I met her," he pretended to muse. "I think she might've stuck an elbow in her butterdish," she flushed to her roots, throwing an empty box of Bertie Botts at him, which missed so much that she was frankly ashamed to call herself a Chaser. "I remember . . ." he said, grinning. "Vaguely," he added wisely and because she was around.

Scowling, she threw the blouse at his face, too – or tried to, at least.

"Oh, shut it, you."

She shook her head and made an effort to distract herself by rummaging through the contents of the box again . . .

"Lucky we got past that," she murmured, a bit wistfully. "Everyone thought it was strange . . . They've never seen me that shy before . . . I usually can't keep my mouth shut, but then you came . . ." Her voice trailed off.

He was watching her carefully, and she wondered if he had caught on to her wistful tone. But to her relief, he made no comment. And she couldn't resist thinking, if her brothers were around, they would tease her endlessly . . .

And she felt yet another rush of affection for him. It was nice to find a bloke that was a bit more sensitive for his own good.

"It's a bit late to be unpacking, don't you think?"

Something about his tone jostled her out of her thoughts. She snapped out of her reminiscing and looked up, catching the shrewd and wary glance.

"Look," she drew his attention, holding up the small broom for him to examine. "Nicked it off the shed downstairs. I think it might've been Charlie's," she shook her head with a chuckle. "They never found out, the idiots."

He took the broom, sizing it up. It barely reached his waist, and she momentarily lost herself in reminiscing. He twirled it in his hand then let it levitate off the ground, watching it race around the room with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Is this part where you tell me how you've been sneaking out of your room for years without getting caught?"

She rose to her feet, brushing off her robes upon rising. "Well, I don't have bars on my windows, Harry."

He grinned.

"And besides," she tossed back her hair and turned to give him an expected look. "I can keep secrets."

And she meant it. Sentimental though she felt, she certainly had not called him all the way here just to engage in memorial meandering.

"In fact," she went on, suddenly feeling quite bold. "I'm doing it right now. Can you imagine what my mother would say when she finds out I've invited a boy in my room – alone, in the middle of night?"

Harry's face burned red. "Er," he tugged uncomfortably at the lapel of his coat. "She'd have you throw him out, I s'pose."

In spite of her rather precarious mood, she was thoroughly enjoying the effect that she made on him. Wicked though it sounded, it was reassuring to see her own reactions towards him reflected back on him, and she thoroughly enjoyed taking the mickey when she could . . .

"But you're always in her good books, aren't you?" she said bracingly, looking at him with hands on her hips. "So that's not really an option, is it?"

"I'd like to stay that way, if you don't mind," he said quickly. "I really wouldn't like to get on the thin side of her temper."

A reluctant laugh fell from her lips. "Mum's quite terrifying, isn't she?" she mused out loud.

"Nothing I can't handle," he muttered a bit sarcastically to himself. She caught the comment and grinned.

"Well, if you must know . . . I didn't call you in here to damage your reputation," she said, tempting though it sounded, she noted the look of relief that appeared on his face. "I've got something for you."

The colour abruptly faded from his face. He shot her a strange and bemused look, and she wondered if he was thinking about the last time she had invited him into her bedroom.

"It's quite important, you see," she pressed on, bolstered by the lack of a reply. "and I'm afraid you're the only one who could help me."

He made a brisk shrug and thrust his hands back in his pockets. "Not sure what I could help you with, but I'll try my best."

He did not look at her, but she ignored that.

"Well, we hardly see each other," she noted, watching him attentively. He was having a hard time meeting her eyes.

He stepped further into the room, letting his eyes flitter from her own, in that unruly habit of trying to look for a distraction to avoid the subject. He pointedly avoided her eyes, lingering over her small desk by the window and picking up a small Snitch replica from the tabletop. The wings fluttered in his hand but did nothing else. She had not yet figured out how to get the thing to fly yet.

"Well, you've been busy with the World Cup, haven't you?" he said, sounding a bit distracted. "And I've just about finished with training . . ."

He looked expectedly at her, if not with a hint of wariness as well. Still keeping the air light, she closed the distance and let her fingers trace the cracked and jagged edges of her desk. He had his eyes fixed on a single spot on the Snitch, not really looking at it, and appearing for all intent and purposes quite tense.

"Well," she said, leaning back on her arms. "With all this time we've spent apart," she watched him carefully. "It's given me some time to reconsider somethings . . ."

The Snitch replica fell from his hands.

"Reconsider?"

Biting the inside of her cheek, she boldly met his eyes: "I think . . ." she went on, impervious to the growing colour on his skin. "I think we should come to a truce . . ." He looked at her in disbelief. ". . . I think some changes are in order, you know, in case . . . in case this happens again," she added in a lowered voice.

"What?"

He turned to face her fully, no trace of awkwardness or embarrassment in his expression. Nothing but a vestige of impatience and frustration that was always pleasant to look at. He was looking quite on edge this time. She imagined that that was how he would look like had he caught her having a fling with someone else.

He ran an agitated hand through his hair. "I'm about three seconds away from losing my mind, Ginny," he said with a bit impatience. "What are you on about? You didn't call me in here just to wind me up, did you?"

Pursing her lips, she said. "No."

He scowled. "Then, what've you called me in for?"

"Cuddling."

Harry seemed to have lost his footing and slammed his knee into the side of the table, cursing, but recovered quite quickly and looked up at her in a manner that suggested that she had horns growing at the peak of her head.

"P-pardon?"

Laughing behind her hand, she went on, feeling quite bold, not a vestige of embarrassment in her voice.

"Well, I haven't got anyone to cuddle with," she said, tossing back her plait behind and letting it swing behind her. "And you're just the one for the job."

That was a fat lie. Anyone would have agreed to cuddle with her provided that she . . . persuaded them appropriately and certainly while her wand lingered just out of sight but just close enough to reach. But she wasn't about to tell him why she was in dire need of a cuddle . . . even though she was certain that he would never tease her . . .

And perhaps that was the reason why she had called him . . . Or not, added a supercilious voice in her mind.

He looked at her like she had an entire string of Christmas lights around her, as if she was a present that he didn't quite know what to do with.

But he was not entirely impervious to her plans judging by the way his brow shot under his fringe.

"What makes you think I'd agree?" he asked, thrusting his hands in his pockets and watching her turn to stow away the pile of books on her desk to the shelf.

At the question, she whipped around. "It wasn't a matter of choice," she threatened with a wave of her wand.

He seemed impressed, if not thoroughly amused, by her audacity. "So you found someone you could threaten, then?" he pressed on, still watching her attentively.

"Oh, I doubt I could threaten you."

"You wouldn't be the first to try," he muttered under his breath. But she caught the comment and threw him a half-amused, half-exasperated look over her shoulder.

He approached the shelf near her desk and leaned an elbow onto it to support his chin and looked around the room with detached interest, his eyes lingering on a small cage in the corner where her Pigmy Puff, Arnold, was strangely absent, as well as flitting his eyes towards her every so often.

If she didn't know him any better, she would admit that she was rather surprised by his indifference towards the suggestion. He handled it better than she expected.

After a silence in which she shuffled boxes around and overturned them to let the contents spill on the floor, the sound of his voice jostled her out of her thoughts.

"There's the House Cup in here."

She looked up at him. He had caught her array of Quidditch badges and trophies set in a delicate display on her shelf and was admiring it quite fervently.

"Mum and Dad made it for me," she said, crossing her arms loosely over her robes and walking towards him. "It was after my Fourth Year, remember, when Umbridge banned you from playing . . ." she looked at him attentively. "I wasn't sure if we should've celebrated that . . . with you gone, that is . . ."

Of course, they would have won a lot sooner if he had been the one playing Seeker that year, and it would have been a guaranteed victory and not an ambivalent one. But knowing, perhaps, his inflated sense of modesty, she was not surprised by the way he waved off her comment.

"This is brilliant," he breathed.

She smiled.

"I've got Ron's here as well," she pointed at the trophy. "He didn't know where to place it. So I kept it here for him – in case he wanted it back."

He fell silent, looking at the display with a distracted stare. Something nudged his foot. He bent down and picked up a stuffed dragon that had fallen out of one of her boxes from the floor, not really looking at it, and not meeting her eyes; and she briefly wondered if he had yearned for siblings like the Weasleys.

Sighing, she moved up to him and nudged his arm lightly to break him out of his thoughts. "You're looking a bit distracted, Harry. But don't fret, cuddling session's about to start soon."

In his embarrassment, he must have squeezed the dragon's belly too hard because it pried open its mouth and blew a burst of smoke right out of its mouth that knocked Harry's glasses askew and clouded his eyes from view. Laughing, she took out a handkerchief from her robes and handed it to him.

He grimaced, removed his spectacles to wipe them off, looking like he would rather cuddle with thousand fire-breathing dragons than with her.

"Here's an idea," he grumbled upon recovery, grabbing a stuffed hippogriff from the shelf and throwing it at her. "Try cuddling with this."

Flushing at the fact that he had discovered one of her embarrassing possessions, she threw it hard at his chest. "It's hardly one to reciprocate," she retorted.

With the skills of a Seeker, he caught it, looking thoroughly entertained. "Aren't you a Chaser?" He tossed it back on the nearby shelf. "You're better off cuddling with a Quaffle."

Realising that it was fruitless to finish unpacking with him being so distracting, she grabbed a pile of neatly folded sheets and snatched a half-eaten Chocolate Frog that had been lounging on her desk and munched on it before walking over to her bed with a handful of fresh new sheets tucked under her arm.

"Well, it's not exactly a secret, is it?" she grumbled a little too ungracefully, mouth full with chocolate, and setting down the sheets with an audible plonk. "If I hadn't been trying to chase a Seeker this whole time."

He grinned, green eyes glowing brilliantly in the dim light. And she resisted the urge to pounce on him for the quiet, casual, and cozy atmosphere that he had brought with him.

For a moment, she lost herself, taking occasional bites off her Chocolate Frog while changing out the sheets of her bed and entertaining herself with the thought of imagining what her mother would say when she discovered the state of her only daughter. She could virtually hear her mother's shrieking that her daughter was about to go to sleep with teeth un-brushed and filled with chocolate, still in her morning chestnut robes that she had donned upon traveling, with a boy present in her room – that seemed far too comfortable in her room for his own good.

She snickered.

"I heard Snitches have flesh memories," he said, stepping further into the room.

"I prefer mine two-legged, thanks," she threw herself on the bed with all the grace of a ragdoll. "Much more macho, I think."

Of course, there was an element of irony to the expression considering that it was always she who was doing the chasing, while the Seeker always seemed out of her grip.

In the dark, he watched her attentively, searching her face, as if struggling to make sense of something. "You're sure about this? he said, walking forward. You don't think anything good's going to come out of cuddling with a bloke – in the middle of the night?"

Rolling her eyes, she crumbled her wrapper and threw it at the bin across the room, where it smoothly landed – and certainly not by magical intervention.

"It's nothing harmless," she said impassively. "And besides, you're not that type," she aimed a stern glance at him that she had mastered from her mother. "Right?"

His face slowly sank into a delicate frown, the frail light of the moon reflecting off his spectacles and making everything look almost dream-like.

It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps he had never been cuddled properly, and the thought did not dim her mood but instead bolstered her sense of self-importance. After all, there was much lost time that they could make up for . . . and she meant it in all the literal sense.

"I suppose there's no harm in it," he mused out at last after a brief pause, his attentive eyes searching her face from above the rim above his glasses. She nearly giggled and reached over to where he was hovering over her bed to tug at his arm. Shrugging in blasé, he pried his hands from his pockets and let her guide him forward. The mattress dipped slightly with his weight. Her heart pounding and fluttering madly, she stretched her arms wide to receive him, beaming at him and playfully beckoning him into her arms . . .

He chuckled, nearly slumping forward in lethargy, before he paused midway, his hand halfway to her waist, and retracted slightly to stare at her – his eyes surveying her face with a bit of suspicion.

"Are you going to tell me what this is about, then?"

Her lips pursed shut. "Afraid of a bit of cuddle, Potter?" she said at once, feeling both resentful and fond by his natural curiousity.

His brow shot up. His eyes were almost a pale green under the silver light of the moon. He looked almost owlish; and she made a careful effort to keep her hands to herself.

"Oh, all right, damn you," she said sourly, shoving him lightly on his forehead off of her and prodding him into a sitting position. He snapped back, rubbing at his forehead, looking a bit bemused.

"Well, if you must know . . ." she said airily, reaching over to clasp his hand that had been lying idly on his lap. If only he knew how close she was to pinning him down, now that he was here, in such close proximity, and in such a delicate place like where she usually slept, her head once filled with strange fancies of her brother's bright-eyed best mate who was now staring intently at her, oblivious to the growing temperature of her skin over what wicked things she was considering . . .

"I've been feeling a bit deprived lately," she admitted.

"Deprived of what?"

She bit her lip in anticipation. A traitorous flush flooded her cheeks, much to her thinning temper. Her hands twitched in her lap.

"Company."

"Company?" he repeated, as if he hadn't heard her right. He gave a brief shake of the head and glanced up at her. "You could've asked anyone, Ginny, I could've sent you Moaning Myrtle –"

She recovered quite quickly, the colour abruptly fading from her face.

"Oh, very funny –"

"Or nearly Headless Nick –"

"Watch it, Potter –"

"Not that I'm on good terms with either of them," he finished offhandedly and looked up at her, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "But I think they'd be a damn well better company than I a – mmph!"

In truth, she had been eager to shut him up as soon as he had entered the room with that light, warm, and almost rakish charm of someone who had fear and worry etched on the palms of his feet. And now that she did, she could think of nothing but the searing warmth on her skin and the blissful feeling of forgetfulness.

He made a vague motion to jerk back in surprise, muffled laughter vibrating through their jointed lips. But much too eager to wipe the grin off of his face, she fisted her fingers around the lapel of his cloak and yanked him down closer, wrapping her arms around his head and trapping him in a bruising lip-lock that left her blissfully wondering where the peak of her head started and where the heels of her legs ended. He caught on quickly in spite of her furious attempts to break his cool and soon took over, his hands trailing over her waist and tangled in her hair behind her neck to take her face in his hands and deepen the embrace. She soon felt like a puddle in his arms.

She did not know how long they stayed: hands fumbling, lips parting, breaths mingling, her hands twisted at the back of his endearingly tousled hair and drawing him impossibly closer until he was flush up against her, the heat of the moment painting her cheeks until she was left quite robbed of sensibility. The only thing that she knew was that she would not be the one to end it first.

Sure enough, sensing, perhaps, the heat of the moment, he pulled back, still somehow managing to keep his wits, much to her irritation, and certainly not breathing as hard as she did, and ducked his head near her ear, not teasingly but close enough to gather himself and leave her skin stinging where his breaths brushed. There was an element of gentleness and care by the way he coiled an arm around her waist, adjusting himself so that she was no longer supporting his weight and relieving a bit of tension, prodding no further, much to her gratitude and frustration.

Blood pounding into her head, she blew out a breath, sending a few of her hairs flying, gathering her wits, feeling, perhaps, that she owed him a confession, her arms still wrapped around his shoulders, as he nuzzled into her neck.

"That . . . wasn't part of the plan," she confessed a bit abashedly, flushing furiously to the roots of her hair. It was only after a moment that she registered that his glasses were in her hands. She must have seized them during her rather . . . passionate wanderings.

He snickered, his breaths tickling her skin. Though she was much too flustered to note a bit of breathlessness in the sound.

"You call that a cuddle?"

Her lips curled in spite of herself. Her heart still racing, she reached up and started to trace her thumb along his lip that looked a bit swollen.

"That, Mr. Potter, is formally known to the public as a snog."

"I sure hope the public won't hear about this," he said distractedly.

"Not that it's their business to know," she added a bit frostily, pulling back strands of red hair that had fallen into her mouth. "And besides, you didn't seem to mind that much, either."

"I don't mind," he corrected her, voice a bit muffled over her shoulder. She shot him a furtive glance, certainly not missing the hint of fatigue in his voice.

And the sound bolstered her . . . She adjusted herself, extracting a leg and twisting slightly to look at him from where he had his face buried into her shoulder, and felt a strange protectiveness wash over her, knowing that perhaps something had been troubling him and that he had gone weeks with little sleep. But she did not prod it out of him, trusting him to tell her when he was ready. But she told herself . . .

He was certainly not going anywhere tonight.

Sure enough, he made to extract himself from where she latched onto him like a Possum to a tree, refusing to let go.

"Going somewhere, Potter?"

He stared at her. "I thought cuddling session was over."

"Silly, Harry," she snickered, setting his glasses on a nearby table. "Did you forget who was in charge here?"

"Right," he muttered, falling back in her arms with a sigh, a hint of laughter in his voice. "Must've slipped my mind."

She ducked her head and hid her smile in his hair, breathing in deeply the rustic air of the outdoors and woodsy smell of a broom handle, nuzzling her nose into the mess of black locks.

"I think I'll keep you," she murmured.

She felt the curl of his lips against her skin.

A tired silence soon settled in the room, reminding her of the lateness of the hour and how tired he must have been to stay to have a laugh with her just straight after a full day of disturbing and mysterious cases.

And she sensed the fatigue by the growing heaviness of his weight, her own head propped up against several fat pillows, his torso slumped against her own, his breaths slowly evening out against her collarbone. Suspecting that he did not notice himself drifting off, she added in light gestures to lull him to sleep, stroking his hair, lightly grazing her nails against his scalp, while another hand played with the small hairs at the back of his neck. His messy locks tickled her chin; and soon, he fell limp in her arms, causing something quiet and tender to flutter in her chest . . .

Carefully ducking her face over his hair, she stared at him, absently smoothing back tousled black hair from his face and tracing her fingers across slightly swollen lips, occasionally grazing her lips against his forehead. There was a strange vulnerability about him in sleep. He looked different, much younger, less protected, and completely exhausted without his glasses.

Yet she was astutely aware of how precarious their positions were, and how her skin stung with warmth beneath the layers of robes that they had slept in, and how his soft breaths billowed against her collarbone, or how his lips were dangerously close to a sensitive spot at her neck.

But she had promised him a cuddle, a friendly cuddle, one she often shared even with her brothers, but there was nothing friendly about this one, she had to admit . . . but she would give it to him . . . even if it was now infinitely harder to release him as soon as he was awake. She would not mind staying here, at least . . .

Her skin tingling in the places where they touched, she drank in the delicacy of the moment and dozed off several times.

She awoke before him, jolting awake several times throughout the night to ensure that he was still there and still breathing, and eventually gave up and stared up at the dark ceiling, waiting for him to wake and pressing several kisses to his hair that she suspected were only doing more harm than good by deepening his slumber.

Her fingers absently rose to trace the scar on his forehead – that seemed dormant and completely useless these days, much to the relief of loved ones. The only thing that lingered was the often furtive display that often led to turned heads . . .

The seconds were ticking by . . . and she started to feel edgy – much to eager for a talk, a laugh, a bit of company, and he had that all for her . . .

Feeling a bit impatient, she gazed down at him, a little reluctant to wake him but too eager for company, especially since she so rarely saw him.

"Harry."

There was no reply. Not even the slightest shift or movement. And she bit her lip, reconsidering and hating herself for a moment, he looked much too delicate in slumber.

Shit, she cursed to herself. Did she really value her own desires over his own?

Whatever had tired him had worked him to the bones. He was often the lightest sleeper, and the first to jolt awake at the slightest sound.

"Harry."

She grazed her fingertips along the small hairs at the back of his neck, drawing a slight shiver through him. And that did the trick.

The rapid beat of eyelashes fluttered against her skin. Groaning, he shifted slightly, his locks tickling her chin, green eyes staring blankly and tiredly at the tuft of freckles on her neck. He lifted his head slightly to glance out the window before slumping back into her arms with a sigh. And she caught him with a bit of a surprised laugh.

Not that she wanted to let him go. She had just wanted him awake.

"Well, you're eager to part, aren't you?"

"It's soothing," he muttered. And her heart soared at the confession. She suspected that perhaps his half-asleep state had addled his brains a bit.

But she would take it.

Heart pounding in her chest, she let out a startled laugh. "I never thought I'd hear you say that." Certainly not over a man's pride or the pride of a Gryffindor, let alone the slayer of the Dark Lord.

"You didn't," his voice a bit muffled in her robes. And she laughed and ran a hand through his hair again, drawing him close and letting him have a few more moments of comfort and silence.

"Well, I'm not the only one feeling sentimental today," she mused out loud, happily nuzzling against his head. "What brought this on?"

He was silent, although she knew without looking that he was awake. He took in a deep breath, clearly troubled by something.

"You don't have to tell me, you know," she murmured.

He turned his head, his face no longer hidden in her shoulder, and stared out into the dark room, sifting and searching for something with an obscure expression. His thumb lightly grazed along the back of her fingers, and she tightened her grip encouragingly; and for a long moment, he was quiet and distant again. There was a long time when she was sure that he would take her word and perhaps not tell her. But just when the thought crossed her head, he spoke up again.

"I visited my parents."

Her heart sank. She should have suspected something like that. Although she suspected that he had not told her the full story, that something throughout the week perhaps had led to him to visiting their gravesites.

Her fingers absently threaded his hair as she stared up at the ceiling, silently cursing his living family to oblivion and feeling a rush of gratitude towards her own. The desire to hex something was nearly blinding. That is, until he shifted against her, now fully awake, and rolled off to lay beside her.

"Is it morning?" he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes.

She sat up a bit languidly, yawning and stretching, and reached for his glasses at the bedside to hand it to him. "Yes," she said at once, in spite of the still inky sky. "You've brought the light out."

He blinked several times and lifted his head to glance out the window, a bit bemused by her remark. She watched the understanding dawn on his face before he turned back and shot her an unimpressed glance.

"Funny," he deadpanned.

She giggled. Finally, some company.

He gingerly took the glasses from her hand, eyes still swollen and red-brimmed with fatigue, she noted with a bit of guilt. Nevertheless, she leaned forward, propped up by one arm, resolute to lighten the mood.

"Isn't it good that I've learned a few tricks from my brothers," she said conversationally. "On how woo with words?" she added at his questioning look.

He paused in the process of wiping his glasses and shot her a furtive and discreet glance. "I thought that was my job," he said, making a pointed effort to not look at her by looking intently for a stain on his spectacles.

She blinked dumbly a few times, caught off guard by his comment, and pleasantly surprised that at the prospect that perhaps sometimes he was trying harder than necessary around her. She rather thought that he was great at being himself . . .

"Oh, you're really suave, aren't you?" she chaffed at him because she couldn't resist, noting the growing colour on his skin. "Bet you could persuade a Horntail to marry you."

"With a broom," he put in seriously. "And a wand," he added over her burst of laughter. "And a blindfold, so I'm better protected when she blows."

Still giggling, she took a moment to collect herself. But he was still wiping the cloth against his spectacles, looking unruffled as a feather.

"Right," she said upon recovery and leaned back on her arms. "I'm sure you've got some tricks to teach Ron on how to woo a witch."

"Yeah," he replied bluntly. "Lack of trying."

She rolled her eyes and threw herself back against the sheets, playing with her pendant that had been a gift from her father the day of his promotion.

"You know, males in the animal kingdom often have to work for their suitors," she said after a moment, after he had successfully finished looking for distractions and was making a poor effort not to look on the brink of dozing off again. Not that she blamed him, of course . . . Technically, they should be asleep by now.

"What would you like me to do?" he went along, sounding amused. "Make a few back-flips?"

She made a dismissive wave of her hand. "Well, you know, I don't ask for much . . ." she said, making a great imitation of her mother. "but a few words to make my day."

Harry's stare was drawn to the pendant that she was toying with. And she felt the traitorous curl of her lips.

"Like, what?" he asked vaguely, sounding a bit distracted again.

"You know," her eyes drifted back to the pendant. "Let's walk on water together, Ginny. Or you burn like Fiendfyre to flesh," He let out a shout of laughter at the comment. "You know, soppy things like that – that have as much worth as a golden toilet."

He grinned. "They'll sound exactly like a toilet coming out of my mouth."

"I'd vomit," she supplied for good measure. "Just to flush out the bile."

He looked like he was fighting back a laugh but resorted to a small cough to clear his throat. "Speaking of bile . . ." her eyes lit up. "Have you noticed Ron being a bit more . . .?"

"Soppy?" she finished. "I don't think I ever took my brother as a suave prat that likes to shower his wife with poetry. It does a bring back a few unpleasant memories, doesn't it?"

Yes, memories of Ron and his . . . Lav-Lav. She thanked the stars and everything above that she had not winded up with a sister-in-law that fashioned a necklace of frivolities for her brother nor had she landed herself in a relationship that required any sort of vocal or physical validations. In fact, she didn't think Harry expected anything from her, save for abstract things, like loyalty and devotion. Things that she had indirectly sworn to him at a mere eleven years and more strongly when he had saved her from the Chamber.

In fact, besotted though she was, she could confidently say that she could go days and weeks simply talking to Harry and being around him, without feeling the need to hold his hand, or look behind his shoulder, or hold him close. It was a bit strange because she had never been a relationship with anyone else like this, and she certainly had not expected something like this in the person that she desired the most. Affection was rare in his book, which made the moments all the more cherished and treasured whenever they arose.

And he certainly didn't treat her delicately than necessary . . . she mused a bit frostily. Nor invade her space like some . . . unmentioned blokes . . .

In fact, he laid at such a distance that she felt a bit deprived of his warmth. Not an inch of their bodies touched, nor was there a need to. It was a relaxing conversation and their positions were appropriate of the mood. But she kept these thoughts to herself and returned back to the present.

"It's not poetry," laughed Harry. "He's got a book of compliments hidden right under his pillow."

"Under his pillow?" Her brow shot up. "Did he forget what he's got down his trousers?"

"Fail and Safe Ways to Woo a Witch. That's what he calls it."

"His fat head can't think of a thousand ways to woo his own wife?" she shook her head. "Merlin help me, how am I related to him? Or better yet, how is Bill related to him? At least he's smooth."

Harry was quiet for a while, staring up at the ceiling, seemingly debated with himself over something . . .

"He lent me one," he said after a while, his voice curt, as if deciding whether it was wise to tell her. "I suppose he thought I'd use it, but . . ."

A gleam of mischief appeared in her eyes. She turned on her side to look at him, leaning on an elbow, and he was making a conscious effort not to look back.

"But . . .?" she pressed on.

He jerked his arm back to thrust his hands in his pockets. "I wouldn't use it," he said briskly. "There's nothing really useful about it."

Ginny was very much enjoying his clear discomfort and defensive retorts. He was fiddling with the top button on his coat.

"You're right," she said in a low voice. "What use would the Wizarding World's most eligible bachelor get from trying to woo a witch?" Harry reddened. "They'll just come right to him."

"It's only because I'm famous," he shot back.

"It doesn't help that you've grown taller –"

"Ron's tall –" he interjected.

She snatched his glasses from his face and promptly placed them on her own face. "And dashing –"

His neck coloured. "I should visit Teddy –"

He made to scramble up and off the bed, but she leaned over him, blocking him with her weight. "But it's all right, Harry," she said reassuringly, patting his chest. "I'll reserve your virtue, I won't give them permission to look."

"Permission?" He snatched back his glasses with an annoyed look. "How's anyone going to have a good look at my face when they're so busy gawking at my scar?"

"Oh, don't worry," she said, wrestling his hand back from where he was trying to put his glasses back on. "Not everyone's going to gawk at your scar when you look like that."

He glared at her, but that made the matter all the more true and all the more flattering. Giggling softly, she wrestled back his hand and distracted him by lowering her head to his lips, feeling his reluctant response. And for a moment, neither of them said a word. In fact, it was only until later that she felt the sharp edges of his glasses dig into the side of her head that she let out a soft laugh and drew back to seize them from where his hand had tangled into her hair and place them back on his face.

He jerked back a bit, startled and a bit dazed from his abrupt vision change.

"Right," he said, sitting up slightly and adjusting his glasses in a manner that implied that they had never been interrupted. "How did we get here?"

She lowered her chin onto her folded arms on his chest, certain that she could stare at him forever and never tire of it. "We were talking about Ron."

He ran a hand through his hair, looking sharply and intently at her, as if searching her face for answers . . .

"No," he deadpanned, lowering his hand and shaking his head. "I've lost it." He looked a bit frosty from losing his thoughts that she laughed and resisted the urge to dive at him again.

"You know," she said in a low voice, tracing incoherent patterns across his coat. "I know it's fun to have a laugh at Ron every now-and-then . . ." she shot him a furtive glance, noting the dark frown that had appeared on his face. "But you can't deny . . . at least he's got his life sorted."

He shot her a sharp glance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means . . ." she made a great show of flipping over on her back and examining her fingernails with little interest. "You might want to have me on reserve in case I go chasing after bigger and better Quaffles," There was a suggestive hint in her voice that caused the temperature of room to drop a few degrees, brought on mostly by his thinning temper, but she ignored that. "I could name a few if you'd like," she added quickly.

His scowl deepened at the suggestion. "I'm a bit behind the times, Ginny. I didn't know you were glancing over your shoulder at every chance you got."

"I'm every bloke's dream, Harry," she said, fervently thrusting out her arms towards the ceiling. "International Quiddich player. Young. Unmarried. Won the World Cup at only twenty-one," she went on, making a very good impression of the Prophet that she had to bite her lip at his ever-growing irritation, which she always thought was much too cute to look at. "Stuck with a spectacled git who's got chasing Dark wizards plastered across his forehead –"

"Not that you were complaining," he added irritably.

If he only he knew . . . that was the main thing she liked about him – that made him all the more interesting.

She was not stupid. She knew the consequences of having a relationship with one of the most sought out wizards alive. But frankly, she liked the thrill of danger and uncertainty associated with him, and she would not have him any other way.

She turned onto her side to face him, watching him running a hand across his face that was still dark with agitation but also looking up at the ceiling, as if debating with himself over something. It was always reassuring to see the protective jealousy in him.

Vaguely aware of the pounding of her heart at the closeness, she reached a hand to his cheek, turning his face towards her.

"But you understand, Harry," she muttered, tracing a finger down his jawline. "There's many fish in the sea. Bigger, taller, larger than life," her voice fell in volume, and she stared at the slanted scar on his cheek and absently reached up to trace a finger over it. "And all you've got to do," she pressed closer to his ear, "is hook one up and reel it in."

His eyes flitted down to her lips; and for a moment, she thought that perhaps she had struck a nerve in him to close the lingering and almost frivolous gap. But instead, his eyes returned back to her face, giving her one hard and searching gaze before tugging her hand and turning to rummage though his coat pocket and pulling out a small black box that looked about the size of a Snitch.

"Here," he shoved it gruffly in her hands and closed her fingers around it. "In case you had any doubts."

She certainly had been taught a lesson now, lying there on her side, face burning, and her mouth parted in shock at the item that he had too quickly shoved into her hand. She imagined her face to look something like a fish out of water, which made the analogy much more fitting and much more ironic.

Quite frankly, she had never been more stumped for words in her life.

"I bought it last night," he said, watching her attentively. "I was waiting for you to settle in, I thought you'd might want to come back . . ."

Through the haze of shock, she considered that perhaps he was not as impervious to her feelings as she thought. And it was infuriating as hell trying to work out when he was thinking, let alone feeling.

"That was the most unconventional thing you've ever done," she breathed out. "Is this some secret strategy for me to say yes?"

"Yeah," he said seriously. "Leap without thinking. Catch people by surprise. It's all about the unexpected, Ginny. Haven't you read the Prophet?"

He rolled his eyes. Snapping out of her shock, she gave a reluctant giggle, temporarily ignoring the box, her eyes fixed on the small curl of black hair tucked just behind the ear of his glasses.

"What took you so long?"

"Training's over," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. He caught her raised brow, reaching for her hand. "And-and nerves too, I s'pose," he confessed with a bit of a wince.

Smiling warmly, she interlinked their fingers, running her fingers along rough and callused skin and the small cuts on his palm.

"I can throw it away, if you'd like," he added impatiently when she gave no response. "Or give it to Moaning Myrtle."

Smirking, she moved back to lay on her back, inspecting the diamond ring. It was simple, and perhaps inexpensive for his fortune, and not extravagant, but it was the most expensive item she owned as of today . . .

And figuratively . . .

"I heard she's got a toilet reserved for you . . ." she said in the midst of inspecting. "What did she say it was?"

"Golden," was his crisp reply. "And all polished and smelly . . ."

Laughing, she drew the ring on her finger and watched it twinkle in face of the full moon. For some reason, she wished that Teddy was here.

"You should definitely tell George that," she said bracingly, her voice casual despite the cart-wheels she was doing in her mind. "He might get some ideas over what to get you for Christmas . . . You know he's always at a loss when it comes to buying you a present."

"You mean like in First Year. They sent a toilet seat to me when I was in the Hospital Wing," he explained at her questioning look. "Even Dumbledore had a laugh about it afterwards."

But she was only half-listening, too busy admiring the way the messy fringe of his hair fell onto his eyes and the weight of the ring on her finger.

Smiling contently, she hid her face in his neck. He received her with little surprise, quickly enfolding her in his arms with all the tenderness and firmness that was familiar and burying his face into her hair. His chest undulated with silent laughter, but much to her relief, he said nothing. They stayed quiet for a long moment, listening to the cool breeze of the night enter the open window. And she felt like a little girl again, buried in warmth and peace, as he wrapped an arm protectively around her waist while another toyed with her now messy and loose braid, trying to pry it apart, reminding her of the many hours they had spent out beside the lake at Hogwarts, joking, having a laugh, or even staying completely quiet, impervious to all the dark days that were to come . . .

And she couldn't help but note . . . he had kept more than just his word. It was very much like cuddling with a cloud, like floating on air, so that she was not surprised when the world suddenly became a muzzy blur, and she slowly started to feel like Flobberworm in his grasp.

"You won't leave if I pass out for a bit, will you?"

She felt the twist of his lip against her head. He slid his head down, glasses tangled in messy hair, until his forehead reached the crook of her neck, distracting her by the tickle of his locks and the nuzzle of his nose, making everything look hazy and heavy.

"No," he said after a silence.

Her hand instinctively rose to his head; and she turned to bury her face in his hair. And soon, she found herself drifting off, soothed by the silence and peace and the comfort . . .

That is, until . . .

CLING!

Jolting awake, she sprang up into a sitting position, her wand surging forth towards the sound, only to find him still splayed on the bed beside her, rubbing his forehead where she had smacked him, an annoyed look on his face.

"That would be Crookshanks," he grumbled out, jerking a thumb to the closed door, his voice a bit gruff, and she briefly wondered if he had dozed off with her. "Hermione must've left him here, I think."

And she knew why . . . Ron refused to live under the same roof that housed that cat that he claimed was wiser and dodgier than Trelawney with spectacles.

Still breathing hard, and irritated by his infuriating calmness, she shoved the wand back under her pillow and threw herself back against the headboard, watching him twirl his wand between his fingers with languid awareness.

"Harry?"

"Hmm." His tone revealed that he was only half-listening. For some reason, he appeared a bit lost in thought and reluctant to snap out of whatever he was thinking about. And she wondered how he had not collapsed with how tired he looked.

Sinking against the pillows, eyes wide and alert in spite of her exhaustion, she looked at him, studying him, and marveling how she had managed to stay this long, nearly eleven months, nearly a year, without seeing him properly, without being surrounded by others.

I must be dreaming, she murmured to herself.

She stared at him. He was always familiar to her, perhaps because studying him had always been one of her favourite habits.

He was quiet, but not diffident, and reserved, even around her, and kinder than her brothers – or polite, for better words. Yet he was different in many respects: dry, reckless, never one to boast, and never one to initiate, and always bowing out of the spotlight, and listening instead of speaking. He always looked like he was hiding something, or holding something back, be it an inside joke that he was modest enough not to comment about, or something that disturbed or troubled him throughout the day, that people had to prod him until he snapped before he confessed what was bothering him. It often manifested in the tight crease over the brow and the faraway stare that made him appear as if he was in another world of his own.

And he had that look about him now, too, though he looked relaxed and healthy by all respects: lithe and tall, reclined on the side of her bed, respectful enough to leave more space for her than himself, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his chin bowed to his chest; and although she knew that her mother had taken good care of him over the years, he was still thin and pale with all his efforts to work himself to death until he forgot his worries . . .

They had soon come to discover that there was nothing really that they could do about it but go along and distract him from his worries the way that he liked it.

And that was exactly what she did.

"You don't think Crookshanks' got it out for Ron's head, do you?" She slid down against the sheets, snuggling to his side, placing her cheek against his chest and wrapping an arm around his waist.

And that did the trick.

Blinking out of his thoughts, he startled a bit before recovering quickly, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Why do you say that?"

"It's the way he looks at him," she replied, toying with a button on his coat. "You'd think he understands just about every foul thing that comes out of Ron's mouth . . ."

He gave a strange smile. "I think Victoire might be catching up, too . . ."

"Really?"

"You didn't hear about the fiasco with Crookshanks, did you? Happened just this morning . . ."

Her body stiffened a bit. Why her mother always tried to keep her out of conflicts was beyond her. "Mum failed to mention that," she said distractedly.

"Well," he said, sounding a bit reluctant at bringing up the topic. "I reckon she might've wanted to save you the trouble, what with all the travelling and unpacking . . ."

"Save me?" she sprang to a sitting position, one leg tucked beneath her, bolstered by the possibility of drama. "Oh, I definitely want to hear this."

He rubbed a palm at his forehead, his face slightly annoyed, perhaps by the prospect of having to explain something that he didn't like to hear – and she knew conflict was one of them.

"What's to hear?" he said, annoyed. "Ron wanted have a go at Crookshanks."

"That sounds like my brother," she rolled her eyes. "He's always been a bit jealous with how Hermione treats him. You'd think he'd expect Hermione to be handing him cat treats, too."

He gave a short snicker that he wisely turned into a cough in respect for his best mate. "Your mum threw him out later – well, the two of them, actually."

"What?" she said, surprised, snapping her head up to look at him. "Why?"

That was unusual. Her mother would always pester newly-weds about having children and serve them hospitably than necessary than voluntarily kick them out.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "He, er, let his mouth run a bit . . ."

"In front of Victoire?" she asked, surprised. "You didn't try to stop him, did you?"

"I tried," he shrugged. "but if I had to cover her ears for any foul thing that came out of Ron's mouth, I'd have to deafen her completely."

"Oh, no," she said, horrified. "He's going to make Peeves out of his nieces."

"Hermione talked him down later," he assured. "They had a row about it afterwards."

"What's new?"

"I thought things might've changed after their wedding," he chewed on a lip in musing.

"It's their expression of affection," Harry looked up at her. "It means they love each other," she added at his questioning look.

He didn't look like he understood, not that she blamed him.

"Right – well, I'm glad to be out of that."

She grinned.

She sank down against the sheets again and resumed her position by snuggling into his side again. They soon fell quiet again. From her position, she caught the strings of muzzy orange through the open window that signified the rise of her dawn, the soft gale of the morning air sending strands of hair brushing into her eyes. Impatiently blowing them away, she focused on the rise and fall of his chest and wrapped her arm tighter around his waist, turning to bury her face into his coat, letting her eyes drift shut.

It was a soothing and comfortable silence. He was one of the rare people in her life that could make her enjoy the blissful oblivion and peace that accompanied the silence. And soon, she felt herself getting drowsy again. But before she could sink deeper into the bliss of forgetfulness, the sound of his voice roused her out.

"Ginny."

She didn't want to answer. But it was Harry, and he was a bit immune from her rudeness because of – well, being him. So she blinked awake, staring blankly and groggily at the black texture of his coat, her hair splashed around her, and languidly registered the pause of his ministrations.

"Hmm?"

For a moment, he made no reply; and she slowly started to consider that perhaps she had imagined the sound. But just when her eyes had drifted shut again, his quiet voice cut through her slumber again.

"Ginny."

"What?" she said impatiently.

She shook herself free of any lingering fatigue and lifted her head to stare at him. Much to her irritation, he seemed a little too unperturbed by her thinning temper.

"I think I might have sat on something," he admitted.

That's it?

He threw her a knowing smirk that, on a normal day, she might have glowed red under. But today – well right now, in her sleep-deprived state, she felt nothing but a surge of annoyance at the sight.

Growling, she let her head plonk back against his chest, her hands fisting possessively around his coat, determined to get some sleep tonight.

"So sit on it," she said gruffly, her voice a bit cracked from fatigue. In the dim haze of her conscious mind, she did feel a bit like hypocrite, considering that she had been the one that had invited him in . . . But she was too grouchy to acknowledge so.

He didn't seem impressed with the answer. And she knew a lost battle when she heard one. There was a reason why he was famous, after all.

Sure enough, she felt a firm pair of hands grip her arms and tug her forcibly up. But she refused to comply but stubbornly latched onto him like a leech.

"Ginny," he warned.

"Harry, come on, you're being ridiculous –" she pleaded.

But he was as stubborn as she was.

"I swear there's something under here," he said defiantly. And for a split second, she found his curiosity oddly irritating.

"Later," she insisted.

He ignored her and pushed her off of him – rather rudely in her opinion. Growling, she glared at him and reluctantly sat up with all the grace of someone who had just recovered from a hangover, her hair wild and unkempt, huffing and grumbling, rubbing her swollen eyes awake, and grouchy and annoyed from the loss of warmth.

So she did the only thing she could think of: a defiant vow in her head that . . . whatever he had squashed under his arse, she was determined not to care about –

But then the thought burst like a game of Exploding Snap. He had sat up to draw the covers of her bed back only to dig his hands through to find –

Her eyes widened to the size of Galleons. There, standing in the center of Harry's palm, looking woozy and a bit disoriented, as if stars were circling around its head, was a large pink fluff-ball whose fur looked a bit flattened on one side, not unlike the shape of a skull after being hit by Bludger.

"Arnold!"

"It's alive," Harry noted with surprise as the pink Pigmy Puff shook itself, almost drunkenly, on his palm – not a shred of concern on his expression.

"Oh, of course he is, you dolt – and oh, thank God I've found him – and – look, you've flattened him!" she reached across his torso to snatch her puff from his cruel hands and held him close to her chest. "You nearly suffocated him, Harry. "

"Sorry," he said, surprised more about her reaction than the now flattened Puff, although his apology did not sound at all sincere.

"Look at his face," she outstretched the fur-ball, aware that she was sounding too girlish for Harry, who was looking a tiny bit uncomfortable, running a hand against the back of his neck. "He's the cutest thing I've ever owned."

"Cute?" He eyed it with a bit of distaste in his expression. "He's, er, really great," he added hastily at her look, though he made no effort to sound convincing.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, no need to mince your words, Harry. I can handle it."

"All right," he said a bit too readily in her opinion, pushing up his glasses. "He looks like a giant hair-ball," In spite of his clear distaste, he lifted a finger and started to rub against the small, furry face. "He just needs to look a bit slimier, I think."

She threw him a dark look, irresistibly thinking that perhaps he was spending too much time with Ron, who often liked to concoct wild analogies from his arse no doubt. Nevertheless, her heart gave a traitorous flutter at his tender gesture.

"He certainly cuddles better," she shot back.

He snickered.

"And I bet that's why you sat on him," she went on, pointing an accusing finger at him, which he simply deflected with a wave of his own. "You didn't think you'd ever measure up to a tiny Pigmy Puff, did you? . . . The great Harry Potter, out-cuddled by a Pigmy Puff."

He turned on his side, coiling an arm around her waist and pulling her flush against him until she could feel the sharp tip of his black locks tickling her forehead. Her breath caught, and for a moment, the Pigmy Puff in her hand went unnoticed.

"That'd make a great headline, you know," he muttered, nuzzling the tip of his nose against hers. And irresistibly, she wondered when he had gotten so bold.

"Don't give Skeeter any ideas," she muttered in a slightly strained voice.

He finally managed the impossible task of prying her hair loose from the plait. "I was thinking you could write it yourself."

He was very distracting, threading his fingers along the red tresses over her shoulder. It took a while for the words to compute in her head. But when it did –

"What?"

She pulled back sharply to look up at him. He blinked and adjusted his glasses that had been knocked slightly askew by her wanderings.

"I'm a Quidditch player, not a journalist."

"For the future," he continued. "If you ever decided to quit – I mean, not to say that you should," he added quickly. "But I think you'd be a damn well better writer than that cow Skeeter. And the world could use a bit of spunk, don't you think?"

He didn't expect a reply, and she didn't offer one. She seemed struck and dazed by the suggestion, never once considering herself a journalist, but now the prospect seemed much too endearing to miss. An idea suddenly struck her, and she looked up at familiar eyes, feeling a mad grin tug at her lips.

"Right," she said in a low voice, reaching up to thread her hands in the mess of black hair, Arnold nearly squashed yet again between them. "If we ever get around to having tiny Harrys –"

"Or little Ginnys –" he supplied.

"Then you're right, I'll consider it; and if that ever happens – and you stay in one piece," she said sternly, in which he grimaced. "Then I'll have her greying before thirty. Okay?"

"Deal," he said boldly.

Much to her delight, he drew back and took Arnold from where he had been squashed between their torsos and placed him gingerly into her hands. Surprised, and perhaps a bit flustered by the unexpected gesture, she quickly received him and allowed him to snuggle against her neck, giggling, before she was suddenly distracted by a larger hand tugging her own.

"I'm looking forward to the future," he said quietly.

She looked at him, torn between breaking into tears or laughter, wondering irresistibly if this was the face that she would be staring into for the rest of her life.

Not entirely hospitable to sentimentality, she settled into outright ignoring the feeling by dragging her hand over his neck and down, taking his glasses into her hands and clasping the lapel of his coat and yanking him down to her level.

"Impress me," she looked up with a blazing stare, determined not to close the space until he did. It was quite rare for him to initiate, but when he did –

She was left feeling like Flobberworm for the rest of the day.

He met her blazing stare with his own before he did just that – impulsively, recklessly, and without warning –

He lunged at her, taking her face and pressing her beneath him, pouring every bit of longing, passion, and frustration that lingered or had developed between them into the embrace, tenderly at first, then heatedly, pressing deeper and deeper – letting her taste the fervent conglomeration of whatever was left unsaid between them . . . It was better and clearer than a thousand words, a million fragments; and she responded in kind, setting aside any lingering resentment to fist around his coat and hair to draw him closer and closer, a howl of misery burning her throat and producing an audible sound that resonated across their jointed lips. A surge of heat rushed to her head and might even have singed her skin from the brief burst of passion. She might have even forgotten her own name.

But before things could get out of hand, he tore himself out of the bed with a suddenness that left her a bit befuddled, flushing fiercely, and utterly breathless with laughter, her mind a bit slow to process after that rather passionate episode – and one not initiated by herself, which was quite a rare feat.

To her satisfaction, he looked a bit frazzled as well, running a hand through his hair and smoothing it down from its disheveled state, looking nonetheless pleased and a bit nettled from losing control.

"Sorry," he muttered, looking a bit flustered. "Guess I got a bit carried away . . ."

"Oh, do carry on," she laughed, swinging her feet and moving to stand, albeit a wobbly on her feet, her face still flushed crimson. "I'm hardly one to complain."

"You started it," he shot back.

But in spite of himself, he grudgingly helped her to her feet. She stumbled a bit, caught his hand, and deliberately fell into his grip, laughing and leaning her forehead onto his chest, which undulated with a small chuckle as he reached to pull her into a reluctant embrace.

Perhaps, she thought, flushing fiercely, she had taken his inexperience and his clear lack of affection for granted. She had never felt so woozy before. For a second time, she thought . . . he had certainly grown bolder in her absence; and she bit her lip, smiling, that . . . if he was going to react like that, she might as well leave him all the time.

He took her hand and ran a thumb across the gleaming gem perched on her finger. "You still haven't given me an answer."

"You won't like it," her voice muffled into his coat.

"What?"

He pulled her back sharply. He looked perplexed, if not entirely taken-aback by the response.

She ducked her head, her face blazing with a sudden bashfulness.

"You're right," she acquiesced in a low voice. "You said before that there was always a time to turn back, and we've had that time, haven't we? And I think . . ." she took in a deep breath to steady her pounding heart and lifted her head to look at him. "I think there's only so much time we can manage . . ."

She looked up at him, expecting him to chide her, reject her, or perhaps say 'it was too soon,' or 'we're not ready,' but he did nothing but hold her gaze with an intensity that made her flush pink, but she was nevertheless determined.

"I think it should be soon," her words tumbled out in a frenzy that she hardly noticed herself speaking at all. "Very soon."

"Soon?"

He did not sound queasy or reluctant. His tone merely suggested that he had never considered the possibility of an early wedding.

"Tomorrow," she said quickly, feeling a fire ignite in her and that reckless feeling of abandonment and impulsivity that they shared. "Before sunset."

"A-are you sure?"

"No need to waste any time," she crossed her arms loosely over her robes. "And besides, I never wanted anything extravagant. It's not the party I'm looking forward to . . ."

Her words died in her throat, her face flushing in spite of her determination, not knowing how to tell him that it wasn't the dress or the flowers or the attention that she wanted. The war, perhaps, had taught her that nothing really lasts for long . . . She had not forgotten that she had been very close to having him taken away in the past and still, by all means, very well could again. She could very well lose him tomorrow . . .

And besides, there was a wicked, almost daring and addicting thing, to diving without looking, leap before thinking . . . and it was a language that kept them together.

After what seemed like an eternity, he shook himself free of his trailing thoughts and turned to face her with a determined look.

"Tomorrow," he vowed. "But don't run out on me," he added, smiling.

"Only if Viktor Krum's attending," she said brightly.

He scowled at the reminder. He turned to grab his broom and swung it over his shoulder before turning to her with a finger.

"I'll give you nine hours to make a run for it."

She laughed. "What happens after that?"

"I'm back to work," he said dully. She rolled her eyes. The soppy part of her had expected something along the lines of 'you're mine,' but that would admittedly make the matter much too uncomfortable. And there was nothing she loved more than the nonchalant and unperturbed atmosphere that came along with him.

He seemed to have mistaken her silence as a sign of disapproval. He adjusted his glasses, looking attentively at her. "You can't expect me to leave work without a warning, do you? I can't exactly take the week off."

Of course, neither of them had planned to be married tomorrow. In fact, Ginny could only imagine the shrieks of her mother when she told her that she wanted to arrange a wedding in less than nine hours.

Today, Ginny? Today? But what about the guests – and the dress – and, oh dear – get your brothers to set up the tent – but, oh goodness, that's hardly fair, they've just gotten back from work, you see, and it's hardly past dinner – and oh, Arthur, Arthur, talk a bit of sense to her, you can't possibly approve of this –

But it was the thrill of the unexpected and of poor preparation and the prospect of an early and unplanned union to the person that she desired the most that brought a surge of excitement to her chest.

To hell with social frivolities!

"You're a real ache in the heart, aren't you?" she punched him on the arm. "Witch Weekly's most hopeless heart-throb."

A small flush flooded his neck at the reminder over the paper's most discussed subject; and she felt a rush of satisfaction over the reaction. He looked pointedly away.

Laughing softly, she approached him until she was about a foot away and jabbed him lightly on the chest.

"Best man Teddy, right?" she said with a bit of a warning.

He rubbed at the spot, looking bemused. "I thought Ron was best man. He'd kill me otherwise."

"I'm sure you can manage," she said with a grin. "After all, you are marrying his only sister."

He looked up at her, smirking, and she knew that he was remembering the day in the common room, and what had happened right after the Quidditch match had been won; and the world seemed to still for a moment before he broke the moment – turning and tapping the handle of his broom with the rakish air of someone who had worry etched on the palms of his feet. And she could not resist tugging his arm back and ignoring his look of puzzlement to take his face and send him off the proper and most pleasant way.

"Sorry," she pulled back, looking up at him. "I keep catching you by surprise."

"It's fine," he assured, re-adjusting his glasses and turning to look at her. "It's better this way."

"Really?"

"Really," he smiled. "It's good to come unprepared. Much less worrying involved."

"Right," she nodded, smoothing back his lapel for no reason other than to be close. "I won't tell Hermione you said that."

He laughed.

In that moment, standing so close in the dim light from the window, she saw the hints of fatigue under his eyes and the tight strain on his smile from having to return to the real world and away from the warmth and comfort from the room, that she knew he had been feeling.

But soon, she assured herself, he would have his own home to return to, where the feeling would be permanent . . . and she vowed that she would be waiting for him when he did.

She placed a hand on his chest.

"Take care of yourself, Harry," she said quietly.

His hand enfolded onto hers. He tugged gently onto her arm and pulled her close into a one-armed embrace until she was tucked under his chin. He was almost a full head taller than her. And his grip was light and warm but firm around her. And there was a rustic, almost out-doory scent about him that reminded her of late night flights and the warm firelight in Hagrid's cabin. And she rather thought . . . she could imagine staying like this forever. And what sent her heart thundering was that the thought was no longer an abstract dream – not soon, anyway.

Her heart fluttered with excitement. She turned her head and let her forehead rest against his chest, listening to the sound of a beating heart.

But much to her dismay, he pulled back too soon and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Bye, Ginny."

He smiled upon passing her. But just when he had reached the window, he paused so abruptly that she nearly ran head into him. He turned back. "Oh, and, er, thanks for the cuddles, I s'pose."

She laughed. "I've got more if you'd like."

He shook his head, grinning sheepishly. "I think I've had enough for one night."

"Right," she walked over to the window and propped it open. "Safe flight, then."

They traded smirks upon passing each other. She watched him mount his broom, offer a small wave before shooting through the purple-rimmed sky, a part of her yearning to join him, feeling quite lonely at his departure.

She crossed her arms loosely over her robes that were a bit too rumpled from sleep, only to catch the whipping sound of a broom.

Looking back, she found that he had stuck his head back, still hovering over the broom.

"Oh, and, er, don't bother unpacking," he called back.

His eyes seemed brighter than usual. He threw her one winning grin before diving out of range and soaring into the sky, leaving her blushing to her roots but nevertheless pleased beyond measure.

"Shit," she whispered, a bit breathless from the implication, yet irritated by her infatuation.

Perhaps it was the feeling of being back at the Burrow that made her feel that perhaps she had knocked an elbow into her butterdish.

But another . . . was much too struck to notice anything. It seemed impossible that he had been here, just moments ago, here with her, and in such . . . such a delicate intimacy . . . like something out of someone else's life . . .

Tossing her cloak to the floor, she crossed the room in three strides and snatched the pillow that he had been lying against and held it up to her nose . . . and something wild, almost primitive, crawled up her skin and into her throat . . .

Yes, it certainly smelled like him.

It was good that not a soul was around her to notice the bubble of laughter that burst from her throat, muffled by the pillow that she had drawn to her face . . . surely a part of her was still that tousled-haired girl with an elbow in her butterdish.

And she briefly wondered why adults always tended to grow backwards.