Disclaimer: The characters, places and situations of the Harry Potter series are the property of JK Rowling. The subject matter of the story was inspired by many different sources of literature and film and are also derived from my own imagination. The lyrics of the song Sundown are the musical property of Jimmy Eat World. Entertainment Weekly is not the property of this author. The Idiot's Guide series and The For Dummies series is not the property of this author either. Though they are damned informative and lucrative.
Author's Note: This subject material is basically foreign to me and, like I said in the disclaimer, is based almost entirely on literature and film. I hope that I do not offend anyone who may have recovered from or are recovering from an addiction of any kind. My main goal in writing this piece of fiction was to delve deep into characters that I enjoy from the series. I set out to write something that hasn't been written of numerous times before. (The lack of a fifth book has created a lot of repeat material on ff sites). I hope that this isn't one of those. Please enjoy Anatomy of an Addiction.
Anatomy Of An Addiction
Additiction:(ad·dic·tion)
NOUN:
1a. Compulsive physiological and psychological need for a habit-forming substance: a drug used in the treatment of heroin addiction. b. An instance of this: a person with multiple chemical addictions. 2a. The condition of being habitually or compulsively occupied with or or involved in something. b. An instance of this: had an addiction for fast cars.
Chapter One
Goodbyes
It all happened in slow motion. Well, not truly in slow motion. But whenever, in very still and silent moments, mostly just after dawn, when he would wake up and expect to see her lying next to him, he would remember it that way. A celluloid, black and white film, slowed to a heart-stopping pace, not reality, a non-reality reality.
He tried to calm his breathing, slow it down to the pace of the scene around him. It just made him dizzy. He swallowed a lump in his throat, that telltale lump that made him want to confess that it had all been his fault. Her death was his fault.
He looked down at his hands. Slowly trembling hands and celluloid as well…lifeless…silver screen lifeless. She was fit to be always in front of a vintage nineteen-thirties camera, one of those giants that made the industry what it was. She was a star, but one that had gone out.
There was blood on his hands. No, not blood. Ink. It was ink. Or was it blood. In black and white…it all looks the same.
I see it around me…
He watched with disbelief, with fear as they gawked at her. They were professionals. He had imagined that they had seen everything. They had attended gruesome car crashes, disfigured and hopeless people clinging to life in a flaming vehicle. A reality show, or at least very realistic movies makeup and props. Their faces as they entered the room had shown their surprise.
No one had seen him standing there.
But he was in a corner of the room. Backed into a corner and could not move if he had wanted to. He was an audience. A forced audience. Why had she wanted him to see this? Why did she want anyone to see this?
I see it in everything…
Irony.
She would have thought it was ironic, funny.
He wasn't laughing.
She had given him hope. A hope that was born only two days ago. One day. Maybe not even that old. It was a hope that he was just now feeling. It felt scary. It wouldn't be the right kind of hope without her. But he had been thinking that he would change. Maybe he wouldn't change for him. But maybe for her…
I could be so much more than this…
The gawking had stopped and the paramedics had regained some small piece of professionalism. She was lifted on to a dramatic white gurney. Christ, he thought, they actually use those gurneys, like in the movies. Straps and retractable wheels and all. A real gurney. How 'ER'.
They took her away.
Even then he couldn't move.
Three and a half weeks earlier
She waited on the interim.
She always hesitated. Not from a lack of self-possession. In her opinion, she lacked nothing. Nothing that a scotch neat couldn't give her.
It was in these moments, these in between places; a pause before entering a bar or restaurant, that silence on the other end of the phone just before one answers, that moment when you're staring at someone just before they catch your eye.
She found it exciting.
There was always comfort in the small things that used to excite her as a child: remaining on the periphery, watching people in the in between moments.
What was most exciting. The moment as the ink was absorbed onto the page, disappearing in deliberation. She had spoken. Now the only sound in her ears was the uneven breaths she drew, marking the seconds, minutes that she would wait for a reply.
"Hello, doll."
He would always call her "doll". It made her feel like she was in a William Wyler film. She imagined him, fedora and all. It made her feel like Audrey Hepburn. He would look at her in that telling way, a way that suggested that he knew her, knew what she was hiding. And he did.
Her heart would always beat faster when the words would appear in neat ink on the page.
She shook the thoughts free from her cluttered mind.
Entering the bar she met her agent. Kissing on both cheeks. They pretended that they were the oldest and most casual friends. She paid him well to tell her that she looked like shit today or that her interview with Entertainment Weekly could have gone better.
"Then why did you insist on going out of town?" she asked in her defense, ordering a scotch and removing her sunglasses, replacing them with tortoise shell Gucci glasses. She flipped through the magazine, scrutinizing her picture.
"You're brilliant without me, sweetheart and you know it," David said, sipping delicately on a Linda Darnell Daiquiri.
She scrutinized him over her glasses and narrowed her eyes. "Then why do I keep you around?"
"Because, you're praying that one day I'll turn straight and have an affair with you," David replied smiling girlishly.
"Ah, David. My life is already complicated enough," Ginny sighed. She took a longer sip than fashionable.
"Speaking of complicated, Harry's been trying to reach you. Why don't you ever keep your phone on?" David asked, stirring his daiquiri with one pinky raised.
"Because Harry's always trying to reach me," she answered. She got the feeling that there was something that he wasn't telling her. She took another drink and ordered another.
"Mmmm. Sweetheart, if you're bored with him you can send him right on over to yours truly and find yourself a new one," David said, eyeing her enviously.
Ginny took a deep breath and turned her cell phone on. There were seven messages. Six from Harry. One from Ron.
She dialed Ron.
Said my goodbyes…
***
The Previous Evening
He was almost sure he hadn't been followed.
He really wasn't in the correct frame of mind to be assured of this. He just wanted it to be so.
And so it was.
His father would have said that it was childishness.
It was more like stubborn indifference.
There was a pain that pulsated through his veins on the left arm, dull and low and amplified only by the deafening sounds of the music. It wasn't really music. More of a computer generated off and on beat that shook the rails of the stairs and lulled the movers on the dance floor into a syncopated bump and grind. Syncopated sycophants.
Draco hated these people.
But it was a great place to hide.
He was not ambitious enough. That was fine. He never wanted to be his father.
A seat in the dark corner that he intimidated the former occupant out of. The power of suggestive eye contact. The contact his eyes made with this idiot suggested clearly that if his ass wasn't out of Draco's seat in the next two seconds hell would be the price.
Draco sat.
Placing a hand over his throbbing wrist, he ignored the reasons, ignored the arguments and ordered a drink, Jack. Make that a double.
He appraised the waitress and wondered if she would be the one he left with tonight. It varied. Never the same. The only thing that he minded in change, the girl that would follow him home.
It wasn't complacency, mind you. He was extremely non-complacent. It wasn't the decisions he regretted. It was becoming the typified person. The person that he was expected to be.
God-awful clichés. He was stuck between two degrading clichés.
He removed a cigarette. Soon enough he would move to the harder stuff. It dulled everything. Numb was better than confused or weary or angry or scared.
Cliché number one walked into the club.
This is my sundown…
He was a longtime friend of Draco's.
Blaise Zabini.
"Man, I am completely dry. I hope you have extra."
Draco raised an expertly sinister eyebrow and took a slow drink. "What's going on? You look like you've been running a marathon."
He flung a syringe at his friend who panted nervously. His hands were shaking as he searched for and tied off a vein. Clumsy, nervous. Draco thought he might have to help the train-wreck out a bit.
But no. He found it. Inserted the needle. Calming when the heroin hit his bloodstream.
It was all in his head. It would take a while to circulate in the stream. The fact that he was immediately clamed by the prick of the needle was subconscious. A sign of a veteran user. Used often, used faithfully.
There was a difference between this cliché and Draco.
Draco would never have held on this long.
"So? What's up?" Draco asked calmly, surveying Blaise as he leaned back in the booth and closed his eyes.
"I killed someone," Blaise's trembling voice admitted softly.
Draco smiled. "No shit!"
Blaise straightened and stared hard at his friend. "This isn't some fucking joke. He wanted proof. He wanted an unflinching servant. He wanted me to prove my loyalty."
"Who?" Draco asked, another drag on his cigarette. "Who did you kill?" He smiled and leaned closer. Absorbed in a drama that was so much more entertaining than television.
"They suspected Nott and so I…you know," Blaise offered.
They. It was as if they were speaking like fucking government spooks. He loved it.
"So you offed the bastard?" Draco said crossing his arms and leaning back, expelling smoke through his parted lips as he laughed at his friend.
"Fuck you, Draco."
"Yeah," Draco said, nodding, still laughing. "Fuck me."
"It's easy for you, isn't it?" Blaise spat, rocking back and forth nervously.
Draco set his glass down. "What is?"
"Daddy protects you from anything you don't want to do. You don't even show up tonight and they don't bat an eye."
Draco nodded evenly. It was true. But he didn't care about the killing and the ritual and the rest of that shit. He was afraid of becoming that stereotype. Of becoming Blaise.
"Don't even pretend that you didn't know anything was going on tonight," Blaise spat.
Draco smiled.
"You've got a fucking call sign on your goddamn arm, Draco!"
Draco stared at his arm. It throbbed and stung. He placed a needle into the pale blue vein in the crook of his elbow. "I was wondering if there was a way of getting that removed."
Blaise laughed. "You do and he'll fucking kill you."
Draco shook his head but said nothing.
Fear. Blaise was afraid of what he'd gotten into.
Draco was indifferent. It really was a tacky-looking tattoo to be quite honest.
I'm going to be so much more than this…
Cliché number two walked through the doors. Draco couldn't take his eyes away and tuned Blaise out completely.
"Yeah, maybe," Draco muttered to Blaise. He threw his cigarette into the ashtray and tossed back the Jack. He stood and walked toward her. She didn't see him.
He loved watching her while she was unaware of it.
She went to the bar and ordered a drink. Scotch.
That was a heavy drink for a small frame like hers. It was a hardened drinker's drink. She was cute enough to pull it off. Red hair, translucent skin.
I need you to show me the way from crazy…
Just by looking at her. He knew the type instinctively.
From behind he surveyed the peach-apricot crepe skirt, wrapped around and tied at the hip. The shirt in the same color, low cut in the front if he had seen her from the front.
He was fixed on the back of her knees. He didn't approach but watched her lean on one glamorously white and flawless leg.
He knew at once that she had to be interesting. How was it that this woman could stand there in his club, not notice him at all, while he was static, fixed on every intricacy of her? She had eyes only for the scotch in her hand and the bartender that took her money.
He moved forward.
A lurching sound and then a sloppy drunk had vomited on his shoes.
Clenching his teeth with suppressed rage and disgust. They weren't his favorite pair of shoes, but like everything that he owned, they were fantastic. Now covered in someone else's lunch and alcohol.
He vaguely saw the man bent double in front of him, clutching at his shirt for support.
Draco swiftly broke the man's jaw with one knee into his face.
Grabbing the offender's collar, he hauled the distracted and bleeding drunk outside.
He remembered little of the events that followed. The Muggle police must have shown up at some point. He remembered that the woman at the bar hadn't so much as turned around at the sound of combat behind her. That meant only one thing: she was a regular.
***
The Next EveningHe was waiting in the entrance hall when she came in.
Linen pants that tied in a drawstring. Ivory.
Twin set in coffee colored cashmere. Ann Taylor shoes.
She felt crumpled and wrinkled and wanted to change.
He wouldn't move.
"Ron and Hermione are coming tonight, right?" she asked. She knew this but asked because he liked to know the answers to questions. Fifteen years of friendship with Hermione. She could see why anyone would delight in getting a right answer every now and again.
He stepped aside reluctantly when she gave him an aggravated look.
From behind: "Ginny, there's something we need to talk about."
"Later. I have to change before dinner. Read a book if your bored."
Of course by book she meant one of the many books that lined the entire wall of the living room. It was a wall of accosting orange-ness that had always drawn comment after curious comment. Ginny was fascinated with them. The Idiot's Guide. Not to be confused with the For Dummies series of books. No. The orange cover and blue words on its front was aesthetic in a way that Ginny couldn't exactly explain. The For Dummies series: Microsoft For Dummies, Coffee For Dummies, Photography For Dummies, and on. These were garishly bright yellow and black striped books. The Idiot's Guide's major competitor. It looked like a damned construction zone. Cliff's Notes covers. A warning of some kind. A Don't Trust This Book Because Its Facts Are Not As Reliable As The Idiot's Guide For Dummies.
She felt that the blinding cover was compensating in some way.
No. She stared at her collection of The Idiot's Guide painting her walls with a pleasant orange. It was satisfying.
"It's important, Gin," Harry said as she retreated down the hall.
"Have to change," she called out behind her.
She shut the door and immediately kicked off her shoes.
Grandmaster: refers to the highest international title one can receive in chess. A word used throughout the 19th and 20th centuries but wasn't an actual title until 1950. There are currently 650 active grandmasters in the world.
She smiled at her reflected face in the mirror.
Negative press had been taking its toll. She looked haggard. She needed a drink and a smoke.
The Idiot's Guide To Chess.
In jeans she felt ugly. She knew that she was plain. She had been told before. But her clothes usually hid that fact.
How could you be anything other than plain in jeans?
She put them on anyway.
It was only her brother and sister-in-law that were coming for dinner anyway.
Hermione could be depended on to look worse than Ginny at anytime. Ginny counted on this. It was a given. Maternity clothes.
She never wanted children. It meant saying goodbye to her friends in fashion. Vitton, Dior, Gucci, Chanel. No. They were too much a part of her. She couldn't bear to be ripped from materialism. To be ugly…was hell so cruel?
'Check' and 'checkmate' come from the Persian words 'sha'- king, 'mat'-helpless. A 'helpless king'. Brilliant.
These little facts. She indulged in them. The weirder the subject matter, the more attractive. She lived for cocktail parties. Thrown for her or for Harry. It didn't matter. There were always plenty of them. She had found them to be much more bearable when she had something off-hand to say: "Growing gooseberries and currants is illegal in some parts of the United States." This sort of fact easily dispels even the most earnest fan of hers.
She wrote romance novels. Second Bestseller under Danielle Steele. Everyone wanted to know more about Tom, her main character. Was Harry the inspiration? Hell no!
But she never said this.
With the perfectly practiced look of wistful nostalgia she would romanticize the currant and the gooseberry. Anthologize the goddamn plants until the offender had gotten bored or frightened and politely found someone else to talk to.
Thank you, Idiot's Guide to Edible Gardening.
"They're not bringing the kid, are they?" she asked. Coming from the bedroom finally and curling up on the sofa next to Harry. As soon as she did this he whisked away whatever it had been that he was reading. It was one of her books, her Idiot's Guides. But she had not caught the subject.
She dismissed it.
He didn't like it when she tried to read over his shoulder.
She hated the kid. Her nephew. Vomited all over her raw silk sundress last summer. Cream with a lovely brown spill down the front. She burned it. Rest In Peace.
"Well," Harry said. "They'll have to bring one of them, won't they?"
Ginny shook her head. "It's not the one inside Hermione I'm worried about. It's that little monster with the dirty hands and the dripping nose."
"He's a kid, Gin," Harry reasoned. He was tired. He kept rubbing his eyes. "I couldn't reach you on your phone today."
"Six messages," Ginny said a bit grudgingly.
"I wanted to see how you were doing."
"You wanted to keep tabs on me."
Harry stood and moved to the kitchen. He stirred something on the stove. Harry cooked. He cooked to avoid conflict.
She had a desperate urge to throw that boiling pot of whatever it was in his face. He was hiding something. As usual.
She moved to the bar. Fixed a drink. Sort of ironic to be pouring a drink while Dean Martin is singing in the background. She smiled. Dean Martin. Worth a smile at least, right? Maybe in his day. Never take the man out of the context of his time. He becomes too foreign to be attractive. Dean Martin in the sixties, mmm. Frank Sinatra in that sixties, even better.
In their combat zones.
Harry in the kitchen.
Ginny entrenched behind the bar.
They pretended that the other didn't exist for the moment.
Pouilly-Fuisse became the darling of wine importers during the 1960's. This meteoric fame was matched by meteoric prices. But that's no concern to us today. Priced way beyond its worth during its fifteen minutes of fame, Pouilly-Fuisse has returned to being a pleasant, unpretentious, and reasonably priced white wine. The Idiot's Guide to Wine.
Since when had her mild fascination with retaining facts become and exercise in anger management?
She took a chilled highball glass from the mini fridge and mixed a Gin and Ginger.
Harry eyed her warily.
He was drinking red wine. Only a glass a day. Girl.
Ginny smirked as she drank. She remembered the few times when their relationship was new enough that he didn't know better and she had gotten him trashed off his ass. He was fun then.
"What the hell is it, Harry," she asked in a warning tone.
He looked down at the stove and diced onions. "What the hell is what?" he repeated.
"What did you want to tell me?"
"Oh," he said.
Oh my ass!
"I think we should wait for Ron and Hermione." Harry lifted his eyes tentatively.
"Goddammit, Harry!" Ginny said perching on the back of the sofa, glaring at him. "Have to wait for your back up? Scared of me?"
"No. We should just discuss this together."
Ginny wiggled socked toes and dropped a leg heavily to the ground. She let herself sink back until she fell down onto the cushions. She spilled half of her drink and laughed through guzzling the other half.
"Discuss what?"
Harry looked up but said nothing.
He was more than relieved when the doorbell rang.
Ron and Hermione.
Faithful Ron and perfect Hermione. Wonderful family. Great mum. Great dad. True friends. Ginny suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.
It would become another evening of, "Why don't you visit mum. Just once. She's just come back from the hospital." And "Ginny, you really ought to drink less."
"Ginny," Harry said as he was taking coats. He made a gesture. No smoking. Hermione. Baby.
Ginny had a gesture of her own. Harry looked warningly at her.
She had suspected for a while now that Harry wished that he had beat Ron to her. Had whisked Hermione off her feet first. Too little too late. You're stuck with plain Ginny.
She wondered if they had ever had an affair behind Ron's back. Cliché in the strongest sense of the word.
Maybe that little Weasley bambino in there has black hair. Her smile widened. All too cliché. She would have to break up with him on the merit that such a scandal lacked any and all imagination. He could do better than that. He'd better do better than that if he wanted to cheat on her at all.
Hermione moved to kiss Ginny and Ron followed. He patronizingly took the glass from her hand, handing it off to Harry in turn. An apologetic look was given to the brother and Ginny saw this.
Was Harry supposed to be enforcing a new 'no drinking after seven' policy? She would never comply.
At dinner.
Pleasant and indifferent conversation. Sonogram pictures. Damn! Doesn't show hair color. The article in EW.
Shit!
She sensed a planned segue.
"The photos looked great. Really Grace Kelly," Hermione said while packing it in. Ginny watched her go. She would have put her own plate in front of Hermione and let her eat every bit if she didn't know Harry was watching her.
Lately, after her accident, Harry had been more like a mother than a lover or a friend. She ate nothing all day. Very little on good days. He cooked for her every night and watched her eat. Dinner every night.
"There was stuff about the car crash," Ginny mumbled, pushing her food around with her fork.
"Mostly praise for your books," Ron smiled encouragingly.
Ginny chanced a grateful look at him. He was on her side.
Harry and Hermione looked at her as if she would fall apart at any moment.
"Eat," Harry commanded softly.
She took a breath and started in on her food. Pasta. At least it was something light this evening. Harry had learned to use the grill as of late. She was so fucking sick of steak, chicken and pork.
"Painkillers." Ginny shoved pasta into her mouth. "Where the hell do they get this from?"
"Old prescription information…doctors…" Hermione offered.
Ginny swallowed. "They make me out to be some sort of addict."
"Alcoholic," Harry corrected.
"Making it up. Business meetings. Some nights. I'm not there all the time."
"What are the bartenders names?" Harry countered.
Ginny glared and threw her fork on her plate. "Fuck you, Harry!"
I want to be so much more than this…
"Ginny," Ron tired to reason.
"Fuck you too!" She felt an angry blush come to her cheeks. "I'm a writer, not a drunk. It's my lifestyle. It's not a problem. I don't have a drinking problem…I don't."
The others looked at her skeptically.
"You're going to a voluntary rehabilitation facility." Harry looked at her evenly. Calmly.
Ginny stood.
She stared at them disbelievingly.
The bar. She went to the bar and opened a new bottle of Old Overholt. She poured a rye unadorned. She threw it back and stared at them. Defying them. She wasn't going anywhere.
They stared back as if they had expected this.
"It's a place south of here. Very close. Serenity Hills." Hermione approached her.
Ginny cringed. "Sounds like a fucking mental institution. Or a retirement home."
"David suggested it," Harry said. They had moved to the living room. Ginny felt cornered.
"David! I'll fire that flaming bastard!" Ginny raged.
Harry took a breath. "No you're not. He's concerned about you, the same as us."
"Ginny, we love you and we don't want you ruining your life. You have so much ahead of you. We don't want you to regret screwing up," Hermione said in an understanding tone.
"Are you my mum, goddammit? I only regret coming home this evening. Rehab? Are you out of your mind?" Ginny moved around the bar and past the three of them.
"Someone's got to be your mum, Ginny. You never listened to the one God gave you. Listen to us, Ginny. We want to help you," Ron said reaching for her. She tore away from his grip.
"I don't want your help!" She grabbed her cell phone and retreated quickly to the bedroom. The door slammed.
"What the hell, David!" she screamed into the other end of the phone.
"I was expecting your call, sweetheart. How is everything?" the calm voice at the other end asked.
She held the phone to her mouth, took a deep breath and screamed into the mouthpiece as loudly as she could.
With one hand high you'll show them your progress…
"Are you done now, love?" David asked as she put the phone back to her ear.
"No I'm not done!" Ginny felt injustice weighing down on her. "David! How could you do this? How could you take their side?"
"I'm not on their side. We're on your side. Ginny, think about it, please." There was a long pause. "Love, that article was a low blow. But there was some truth in it. You know there was."
"I'm not an addict!" Ginny raged.
"Please love, hear me out. You need help. If not now…then sometime soon. It's a place just outside of the city. When the press gets a hold on this, your image will skyrocket and then…"
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Increased book sales. You're such a thoughtful guy, David."
"They'll love the recovering alcoholic image. Trust me, sweetheart."
"I'm hanging up now," Ginny said impatiently.
"Please say you'll go," David persisted.
"Bye, David."
"Big kiss, darling. I love you," David said. The dial tone filled her ears and she wanted to scream some more.
She put her pone down and thought about what he'd said.
A Muggle facility.
A drug problem.
He was right.
It would be fantastic publicity.
Harry came in hours later.
She was undressed and in bed.
He leaned over her and saw red streaks on her face. She had been crying.
As gently and quietly as he could he climbed under the covers next to her.
When she had felt him settle in beside her, she opened her eyes and stared at the wall. Hours later she heard him breathing the deep breaths of the sleeping.
She got up and went into the next room. She lit a cigarette and sat on the sofa.
You'll take your time…
She picked up the book that Harry had been reading before dinner.
The Idiot's Guide To Getting Along With Difficult People.
She had gotten this one for David's birthday. She got one for herself as well.
She turned it over to the page Harry had left it on.
The following are reasons not to casually escalate a conflict with a difficult person in a public place:
1. The person might be under medication that encourages frank psychotic episodes.
2. You might be under medication at the end of the evening.
3. The person might be drunk. (Some people show it more easily than others).
4. You might need a drink by the end of the evening.
5. The person might have traumatic stress disorder.
6. You might have traumatic stress disorder by the end of the evening.
7. The person might be a lawyer.
8. You might need a lawyer at the end of the evening.
9. You could have focused your attention on something more fun.
Ginny looked up from the page.
She stared at the bar.
She wasn't a drunk. There was no problem. She was a writer, damn it!
She wanted a drink.
She wasn't a drunk.
Her back hurt.
She stood and looked for her Louis Vitton bag. She popped the medication phial open and swallowed a small pill. She washed it down with Harry's unfinished wine.
Taking a deep breath she moved to the sofa again, tucking her feet under her as she sat.
The page was highlighted. God! He had highlighted.
People who usually make spectacles are usually ego challenged. They want to make sure their version of themselves 'reaches the audience'. Be like the mime. Broadcast that message when you can. Play to the person's superior status, knowledge, or experience, rather than against it, unless you feel like mounting, and backing up, a direct challenge.
Well, she thought.
Finishing the thought was hard. She finished the wine instead.
But no one cares…She tossed the book on the rug and put the wineglass in the sink.
She went back to bed, burrowing under one of Harry's arms. Dead weight, but comforting weight.
Lovely time, tinsel shine…She would go. Serenity Hills. God! She couldn't believe she was doing this.
***
She woke with harsh morning sun on her face.
Harry was asleep. One arm was tucked under his head under the pillow. Ginny lay on the other arm. It must be asleep, she thought.
Goodbye, I'll be fine…
She stared at him until he came awake. Rising up on one arm he blinked and said, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Ginny said. She let him play with her hair, pulling it away from her face and shoulders. "I'll go."
She sounded resigned when she'd said it. Beaten. Harry won the important ones.
He didn't seem happy about winning this one.
"Only because you want me to."
His fingers moved up her hip and back, tracing her spine. "Because I love you, Ginny and I want to help you."
"I've heard all of this, Harry," she sighed laying her head on his chest.
"It can't hurt to say it again," Harry said. "I love you, Ginny."
She got up and threw on a robe, set to the task of packing. She wrapped up the cords of her laptop. Harry watched her from the bed. She woke him up again just after eight o'clock.
Good goodbye…
"I'll visit you next week," Harry said, kissing her lightly on the lips. The car was still running. Her bag sat next to her booted feet on the pavement. She clutched the handle of her laptop with both hands.
She looked small and scared. She knew this. She refused to let him help her with the bags.
Standing there, she let him say goodbye. "I love you."
She said nothing in reply.
Watching him drive away in her Audi A4 until she lost them behind a stand of pines, she vaguely thought she would miss the car more.
Good goodnight…