*Thank you reviewers, you're the cheese on my happy crackers. Don't worry Alisama2, as if I'd leave Ron and Mione in the lurch!! They'll be together a long time (rest of their lives?), you can count on it. But since this is Harry's story, I haven't included any R/HG discussions about the whole sex thing, because it isn't really Harry's business … *pauses thoughtfully* But you know what? I think I want one now. J And in answer to your second point – all their futures are still in the works, don't rush me! Now – angst ahead. You have been warned. ~nm3x5s~

The next day, Harry woke up, and along with remembering that he'd killed Voldemort, he also had to remember that Ginny wasn't talking to him. He nearly went back to bed, but decided he'd just have to face the day like a man.

"Come on, Harry," he muttered. "Get up. Grit your teeth."

It was very English stiff-upper-lip stuff.

"Harry?" Ron mumbled. "You sayin' something?"

"No," Harry said loudly. "Go to sleep."

Ron didn't hear – he was already out of it again.

Harry went downstairs, made himself breakfast, managed a brief smile at Fred and George asleep on opposite couches in the living room (both snoring gently), and then jumped as he heard a bedroom door open above.

Immediately abandoning his cereal, he sprinted for the stairs, but was too late. All he saw was a flash of smooth calf and red hair as Ginny ducked into the bathroom. He considered camping outside it until she was done, but thought she probably wouldn't like that.

If you hadn't been such an idiot in the first place began inner monologue, but Harry shushed the thought. He knew. He knew that already.

Quite suddenly, the bathroom door opened again. Ginny saw him and stopped. She didn't seem to know what to do.

"Ginny," he said, equally stunned.

"Harry." For a moment, she sounded like she usually did when she said his name – like she was happy to see him. Or at least, pleasantly surprised. But then, her face changed. He watched it. Her mouth settled into a hard line and her eyes glinted. "Could you move, please?" she said coldly. "I need to go and get my shampoo."

He didn't. She waited a moment, and then ducked around him.

"Ginny," he repeated, turning and following her. "Ginny, I'm an arse, I fucked up, I'm sorry."

She went into her bedroom, patently ignoring him. He stood outside in the corridor, still speaking, waiting for her to come out again.

"We really need to talk about this. I'm really sorry – hey, wait!" She was back again, and walking briskly past him. "Ginny, wait!" He grabbed her arm.

She turned and looked at him. He released her immediately, trying to put all the words of his apology – much more coherent in his head than what was coming out of his mouth – into his the expression on his face.

Ginny just blinked at him and raised her chin. "I don't want to talk to someone who thinks so badly of me," she said. Then she went back into the bathroom, and shut and locked the door behind her.

But Harry, who had been consciously and closely listening to her voice for a month now – and listening to it unconsciously for longer than even he knew – understood the nuances of her tone. Her voice had been trembling when she said that. It had been an effort for her to push him away.

He was briefly cheered, and then deflated. What did it matter if it was an effort? She'd done it anyway, hadn't she? She really didn't want to talk to him – or at least, she wanted not to want to talk to him. The result was the same either way – they weren't going to talk.

And Harry needed to. He needed to fix this before he went mad.

Maybe you can't, he thought before he could stop himself. Maybe this will be just another one for the list.

~

Harry went flying by himself that day, trying out the mad spins and dips that he hadn't attempted since Hogwarts quidditch. It seemed a long way behind him, a different era – the draughty castle with its layers of secrets and forgotten hiding places, the fire-warmed Gryffindor common room, even Snape's bloody dungeons. The lake glowing in the morning. A quidditch pitch wet with dew. In his mind, all the fears that had stalked him in his last years there disappeared. He remembered the things he'd loved instead, and it was like a golden time, somehow untouchable.

When he went flew to the Burrow, Mrs Weasley was waiting for him in the garden. He swore under his breath, and then descended carefully, not wanting to alarm her.

"Hi Mrs Weasley," he said.

"Harry," she began immediately, "don't you think you should have told us where you were going?"

"Oh – I'm sorry." He was, but he also resented her mothering a little. "When I went out with the others we never said where we were going."

"But that was different," she insisted. "You were with people. I just – I don't like you going off on your own."

She bit her lip. It was Ginny's gesture, and Harry – who had been able to push Ginny out of his mind for a few brief hours – was struck again by how much he missed her, how much he wanted things to be right again.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, when he did not reply. "It's just you haven't any family, Harry and – well, I do worry about you."
Harry stepped off his broom and found himself hugging her. She was soft and warm, like a mother should be, and he had to fight off the sudden, unfamiliar urge to cry into her shoulder.

"I'm alright," he said gruffly, and stood back. "Thanks."

"Well," said Mrs Weasley, dabbing her own eyes surreptitiously and putting an arm around his shoulder to walk him back into the house. "My, you're tall now, aren't you? I hadn't really noticed. I was going to say that you should have taken Ginny out, she needs some fresh air. She's been cooped up in her room all day, and I don't know where Ron and Hermione have got to."

Harry could think where Hermione and Ron had got to, but quite sensibly didn't say anything. Ginny was still in her room. Ginny wasn't coming out. Ginny wasn't talking to him.

The words throbbed along with his heartbeat.

~

In the corridor, he could hear faint sounds coming from his and Ron's room – Ron and Hermione's voices. He immediately began to back away, but then realised that it wasn't those kinds of sounds. It was just regular talking. Maybe they hadn't been – you know – after all.

Feeling despicably nosy, but also somewhat curious (A/N – isn't he always?), Harry moved close to listen. At first he couldn't distinguish the words, but then they began to make sense.

Hermione sounded teary.

"It's OK," Ron was saying in a reassuring way. "Hey, it's OK."

"I just wonder if we did the right thing."

Ah, said inner monologue. That kind of talk. He knew it really had nothing to do with him, but there was a lump of jealously in his chest that he had never felt with Ron and Hermione before, and he couldn't help but listen.

"Well," said Ron, after a pause, "did it feel like the right thing?"

Brief silence.

"Yes."

Ron exhaled, clearly relieved. "I thought so too." He hesitated. "Hermione …" he began, and then stopped abruptly.

"What?" she asked.

"This isn't the sort of thing that means nothing to me," he went on quickly. Harry could picture him saying it – not meeting her eye, his ears red like Ginny's had been that time (Ginny). "I mean – it's not like it was one time, and I forget about it. I don't want that from you."

"What do you want?" she asked.

"Merlin," he muttered.

"Tell me," she insisted gently.

Another silence, and then he spoke in a rush. "I want to be there when you're sick, and I want to wake up next to you like I did yesterday, except every day, and I want to make babies with you, and take them to quidditch practice. I want to be with you all the time. You drive me crazy. I love you."

A long, long silence, and then a drawn-out sob from Hermione.

"I love you, too," she said, choking, sniffing loudly. He heard the creak of Ron's bed as she threw herself at him.

Harry couldn't stand it anymore, and went downstairs. He felt sad and happy and bitter all at once. Ron and Hermione loved each other, and it should have been brilliant. Instead, it made him feel sick with worry and jealousy, and anger at himself for ruining what he had with Gin.

Fred and George leapt upon him as soon as he went into the living room, and involved him in a complicated game of Exploding Snap, in which the winner of each round received five times the amount of the number of the card 60 degrees to his left, divided by the number of months since the third loser's birthday.

It was as he was trying to grasp these rules that he remembered one more thing.

It was his birthday tomorrow.

Lovely, he thought sourly. He hoped nobody remembered. He was too depressed for people to make a fuss.

By the end of the game he owed Fred two galleons and George four, having won a measly three knuts – but then again, he didn't put up much of a fight.

~

Ginny came down to dinner and was subdued, Harry equally so. They sat at opposite ends and sides of the table. Ron and Hermione were quiet too, but in a comfortable, we have a secret kind of way. They kept stealing glances at each other. Mr and Mrs Weasley chatted ministry matters from the first course to dessert. They seemed happy with everyone's monosyllabic answers – and strangely enough, it was Fred and George who were frustrated.

"Will somebody say something that doesn't involve tea-cups gone wild in Surrey!" Fred exploded, in the middle of his custard tart.

"I agree," said George, slamming down his spoon. "Stop being so bloody quiet. I can hear myself think!"

"And he doesn't like it one bit," Fred added menacingly.

"George, dear, what are you talking about?" Mrs Weasley said vaguely. She was too happy to have her husband home for dinner to focus on the tension between her charges.

"I'm Fred!" Fred bellowed, and marched out.

George, slapping his napkin down flamboyantly, followed.

"Well!" Mr Weasley said, sounding mildly surprised. "What on earth was that about?"

"Nothing," came four voices at once. Harry and Ginny's eyes met. She flinched away, and he sighed.

Mrs Weasley's frowned suspiciously.

"Er –" Hermione floundered, and then grasped at the first thought that came to mind. "I guess they're upset about their apartment still being fixed. They want to get back to the shop."

"Ah." Mr Weasley nodded and finished his dessert in one spoonful. "That's it, dear. You know how they are about the shop."

"Yes," Mrs Weasley acknowledged darkly.

"Well," Ron said, pushing back his chair and standing. "That was lovely, Mum. Shall we clear the plates?"

"You're eager," she commented, sounding both amused and wary. "What's got into you?"

"Don't know," he replied, but couldn't help sending a grin Hermione's way. She flushed and stood to help him.

"Um – sorry. I feel a bit sick," Ginny said shortly, and headed upstairs.

"Ginny! Ginny!" Mrs Weasley called after her, but she didn't slow down or stop. Everyone listened to the soft click of her bedroom door shutting. 

"I'm a little worried about her," Mrs Weasley murmured to Mr Weasley. "It's getting to be a bit like a madhouse in here."

Harry gathered glasses slowly. He was worried too. He wished he could go back two days and take back the stupid things he'd said. He almost shouted the thought aloud, but managed to control himself.

He had to speak to Ginny. Dammit, he had to. There could be no more pussy-footing around the issue. He had to do something, and as soon as possible.

He was thinking so furiously that he almost dropped the glasses.

"Watch it there, Harry," Ron said, coming out of the kitchen for another load and noticing.

Harry just nodded. He'd had an idea, and it had better bloody work.

~

Twelve o'clock. Everybody in bed and hopefully sleeping. Apart from Fred and George, who probably weren't going to stop a fellow sneak-out, even if they did see him.

Harry was slipping down the stairs with his Ascendant. He'd considered Apparating, but he wasn't that good yet, and besides it made an awful cracking sound. No – a broom was easier. It might calm him down, too.

The kitchen door was locked, and Harry had to use Alohomora. The first-level spell worked – the Weasleys were never too fussy about security ("Who'd want to rob us anyway?" George said frequently, and cheerfully. "What are they going to take? Our underwear?"). Harry creaked the door open and headed out into the night.

It was a warm, and there was a dim half-moon. He hadn't bothered to put shoes on, and was glad, because the grass felt nice under his bare feet.

Alright, he told himself. Let's do this.

He mounted his broom, went through a few soothing, wide circles in the air, and then flew right to Ginny and Hermione's window. The curtains were open, the window closed, and he couldn't quite see her from his angle. He craned his neck awkwardly – well, there was Hermione anyway, fast asleep. Like the bloody dead, he thought fondly. Still, he couldn't make out Ginny in full. When he turned, he could only see the lump her feet made near the end of the bed.

Quite suddenly, she kicked her covers off. He could see her feet. His heart swept up to his mouth.

They're just feet, said inner monologue fiercely. Get a grip.

He breathed deeply and got a grip before rapping on the window.

Ginny sat up right away. He rapped again. This time she hopped out of bed, because her feet disappeared. A few moments later, she was in his line of vision, warily holding her wand in front of her. He waited.

She saw it was him, and her wand arm dropped. She was too surprised to say anything.

"Open up," he mouthed.

Still shocked to see him outside her window, she fumbled to do so.

"Harry," she hissed, leaning out. "What's wrong? What's happened? Is there someone in the house?"

"Nothing," he said. "I need to talk to you and if I have to come up here to do it, then I will."

Ginny groaned and made to push the window down again, but he dropped a little in the air, thrust his head into the gap and put his hand against the frame to stop her.

"Please Ginny," he said forcefully. "Please."
She eyed him and then folded her arms across her chest. "What can you say that you haven't said already?" she demanded.

"That I miss you," Harry said, going with the first thoughts that came into his head. "That I miss how we were."

"I'm not the one who –"

"I know what I did," he interrupted, raising his voice. Hermione shifted and muttered, and Ginny glared at him. With an effort, he spoke in an undertone. "And I know that I was an idiot. That I believed something stupid when I shouldn't have. I know all that, and for Merlin's sake Ginny, you have to believe me when I say I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry I hurt you like that."

She didn't say anything. She wasn't looking at him anymore, her gaze on her feet – bare like Harry's – but he was doing enough looking for the both of them. He was trying to read her, and it was no good. She gave him nothing.

"Ginny," he went on, a bit desperate now, but determined to plough on, "we've got something, and you're throwing it away because I made a mistake. And it was a fucking huge one, and I'm sorry for it. But please – don't let us end like this, OK? I don't –" He struggled for words. "I can't – stand being like this, and I know it's hard for you too. If we can just – move beyond it – start again –"

Still, nothing. Not a shuffled, not a whisper, not a twitch of the eye. He lurched on, wanting her to stop him, wanting her to bring this to some kind of conclusion.

"When I'm with you," he said awkwardly, "I feel so much better. I want – I just wish I could make you understand. Ginny, I think – I think I –"

And here Ginny raised her head, and raised a hand too, palm facing him. It was a 'Stop'. He stopped. She had tears in her eyes. Harry didn't think he was breathing.

"You can't just say these things and think that'll fix everything," she said, not meeting his eye. "They don't. You have to mean them, Harry – and I don't know what you mean anymore."

With that, she slid the window shut, pulled the curtains and went back to bed.

Harry sat on his broom in uncomprehending silence. This had been his last hope – talk to her, tell her how you feel, apologise like you've never apologised before, and then see how things turn out.

Well, things had turned in exactly the wrong way.

He was just considering knocking the bloody window down when:

"Harry?" called an incredulous voice. He almost fell off his broom. It was Mr Weasley, with his head out another window, staring at him. He was wearing a Muggle nightcap with a pom-pom on the end. "What are you doing?"

"Er – um – I'm just – flying," Harry said lamely.

Mr Weasley shook his head. "You're as bad as Fred and George. And don't go waking the girls up, will you? Go on, go back to bed."

"OK," Harry agreed dismally. The window-breaking thing was a bad idea anyway. He went inside, packed up his broom, and lay down on his mattress.

There was no way he was going to be able to stand the rest of the summer in this house, with Ginny so close.

There was just no way.