Not Really Sorry
It was something she liked to do. On dreary days when Ron was too tired or too busy or just plain too stuck up to play with her, and it was too hot or cold or rainy outside to entertain herself there, Ginny would climb the winding steps to the attic and paw through the book-shelves and cauldron fulls of novels from her parent's school days.
She would pick a book, normally by-passing her mother's old romance novels (not because they weren't of any interest to her, but more because she knew they were charmed to keep Fred and George away) and shuffle through a cauldron full of old potions textbooks, the intensity of the potions growing with her age. Then she'd settle in one of the worn out arm chairs, prop her feet up on the old foot-rest and crack open the book, ready to while away the hours. However, she hadn't actually done so in years.
She had just been too busy since beginning school. They were rarely home during the summer and when they were, Ron was more than willing to teach her to play Quidditch or beat her in chess or whatever caught their fancy. Infact, she hadn't been to the attic since the summer before her second year when she spent a good amount of time staring out the window and pushing thoughts of Tom and, consequently, Harry Potter out of her mind.
Therefore, the books lay untouched; the darkness in the attic staining their pages a light parchement color as Ginny and the rest of the Weasley family ignored them. Until, one day, halfway through Ginny's fifth year at Hogwarts, she traveled up to the attic to read.
It was wet outside, three days until Christmas and not a bit of snow, just rain. It pounded against the windowpanes, demanded entrance, and became furious when it was denied. The wind howled like a werewolf on a full-moon night and whipped the water falling from the sky around. The backyard was a mess of mud and the occasional sprig of grass. It had been raining for the past ten days and the rain, mixed with the unbearable cold made the Burrow not seem as cheery. Ginny was glad she was not at Hogwarts, the cold stone walls did not keep heat in well.
Fred and George were at work, Wheezly Wizard Wheezes having taken off quite well at the beginng of the summer, due to their spectacular departure from Hogwarts. Bill was at work also, though he might have taken lunch off to spend time with Fleur, his new finacee. Charlie, who had come home for Christmas (or at least that was his excuse, he was reaslly there for the Order) was out with their mother, shopping which left just Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Harry at the Burrow. Percy no longer counted.
Ron and Hermione were in the kitchen, talking Ginny supposed the warmth of the fire illuminating their growing relationship that had yet to cast off. They'd been dancing around each other and Harry all year, Ron sneaking shy glances when he thought no one was looking and Hermione letting her eyes follow him around the room. It was almost funny to watch, they both had their doubts, most of said doubts concerning Harry, but when they were alone, together, The-Boy-Who-Lived did not bother them. And Harry? Well, presently Ginny wasn't quite sure where he had gotten off to. More than likely he was sitting in Ron's room, staring at the chessboard and wondering where on earth his best friends had gotten off to.
So Ginny climbed the stairs to her safe-haven alone, pulled down the steps above Ron's door and climbed into the attic. The attic was two rooms, connected by one door. The first room was just storage, plain, boring, and right above Ron's room. It was where the ghoul normally chose to lurk, as there was more stuff to throw and always caused Ginny to feel as if she was being watched. So she hurried through. The second room was somehow taller than the first. With towering bookshelves, Bill and Charlie had built one summer when boredom pursued them. Cauldrons and trunks of books, most of them seperated by subject sat on the floor and three large armchairs, their stuffing coming out around the arms sitting around a chessboard and a coffee table. It was cozy, comfortable and the single, large window let enough light in, even on rainy days, to read by. And the best part? It was always deserted.
She pushed the second door open and stopped short as a black head, with green eyes and wire-rimmed glasses looked up at her and back down at his book dismissively. What was Harry doing here? She took a few tentative steps into the room, annoyed that her refuge had been disturbed by one of the people she was trying to escape.
"Hi Ginny." He spoke, eyes not glancing up from his book as she strode over to one of the cauldrons and bent over, determined to ignore him.
It wasn't that she didn't like Harry. No, she liked him just fine. It was just that this was her house and her safe-haven and he had intruded, however un-knowingly, upon it. She just wanted to be alone, by herself, away from everyone else and, for a moment she contemplated retreating to her room before discarding the idea. Her room was bright pink, and not mellow enough to read in. She could, always, ask him to leave though.
Straightening up she turned to him and was about to ask him to go when her conciense stopped her; she couldn't ask Harry to leave, it wasn't fair. His best friends were downstairs, excluding him, they would soon be part of something Harry could never share with them, the least Ginny could do was share her hide-away with him.
Ginny plopped down in one of the armchairs, cracking open he potions text and beginning to read only to find that it was harder with Harry in the room. Eveyrthing seemed to be magnified, the eratic tapping of the rain on the glass, Harry's steady intake of breath, her own intake of breath. Concentration was limited and finally she looked up, after a few minutes, to find that, while Harry was looking down at his book, he wasn't actually reading. Ginny couldn't help but wonder if he had been reading at all.
"What are you thinking about?" She finally asked, putting her book down and letting her eyes wander his face. He didn't look all that bad, at least, not as bad as at the beginning of the school year. When they all arrived back at Hogwarts, Harry looked, if anything, like he had just escpaed Azkaban. He was gaunt. Now, after three months of Hermione fussing about how much he ate, he was back to looking like Harry. If not just a bit older.
Harry looked up at her, closed his book, opened it again and sunk further back into his chair before trading her gaze for staring blankly out the window and answering, "Voldermort." Ginny immediatley flinched and, even though he wasn't looking at her, Harry apaologized quickly, "Sorry."
"Why?"
This time he held her gaze, his brow furrowed before shrugging, "I don't know, because I can't get my mind around it."
"No, I mean…" Ginny trailed off and shook her head, returning her eyes to her book. Minutes later, however, she couldn't hold her question back, "You're not really sorry, are you?"
His green eyes bore into her brown ones as his set jaw turned to a frown, "What?"
"You're not really sorry." She took a deep breath, wondering why she would test the boundries of her friendship with Harry so liberally. "When you say You-Know-Who's name, you always aplogize but you're not really sorry, are you?"
"What do you mean?" He seemed rather confused, his eyes showing the utter bewilderance that was missing from the rest of his face.
"You always say you're sorry." She repeated, "But then you go right on and you say it again, so you're not really sorry."
For the longest time Ginny thought she had pushed him over the edge. He had been so close, teetering on the brink of emotional madness all year and she had delievered that fatal push. His eyes refused to meet hers until finally, taking a deep breath, he answered, "No. No, Ginny, I'm not really sorry."
Her relief was so great that she smiled, if only a tiny bit before asking her next question, the confusing in her tone contradicting her smile, "Why? Why apologize if you don't mean it? And why say it?"
"Because it bothers people." He replied sullenly, "I don't think before I say it and when I relaize it bothers them I have to say something, its rude not to." Ginny had the smallest amount of time to wonder how a boy brought up in such harsh conditions could be so well-mannered before her continued, "And we can't all live in fear of his name, Hermione says it now and I don't see how you and Ron can be so scared of his name and yet force me to let you go with me." Ginny blushed, she had forgotten about her pushy methods last year. "I'm just not sorry."
She nodded and returned to her book, mulling over the information he had given her. Finally she looked up to find him glancing at her over the top of his book. "Then I'm not either."
He stared at her, "What?"
"I'm not sorry when you say Voldermort."
Harry smiled.
It was something she liked to do. On dreary days when Ron was too tired or too busy or just plain too stuck up to play with her, and it was too hot or cold or rainy outside to entertain herself there, Ginny would climb the winding steps to the attic and paw through the book-shelves and cauldron fulls of novels from her parent's school days.
She would pick a book, normally by-passing her mother's old romance novels (not because they weren't of any interest to her, but more because she knew they were charmed to keep Fred and George away) and shuffle through a cauldron full of old potions textbooks, the intensity of the potions growing with her age. Then she'd settle in one of the worn out arm chairs, prop her feet up on the old foot-rest and crack open the book, ready to while away the hours. However, she hadn't actually done so in years.
She had just been too busy since beginning school. They were rarely home during the summer and when they were, Ron was more than willing to teach her to play Quidditch or beat her in chess or whatever caught their fancy. Infact, she hadn't been to the attic since the summer before her second year when she spent a good amount of time staring out the window and pushing thoughts of Tom and, consequently, Harry Potter out of her mind.
Therefore, the books lay untouched; the darkness in the attic staining their pages a light parchement color as Ginny and the rest of the Weasley family ignored them. Until, one day, halfway through Ginny's fifth year at Hogwarts, she traveled up to the attic to read.
It was wet outside, three days until Christmas and not a bit of snow, just rain. It pounded against the windowpanes, demanded entrance, and became furious when it was denied. The wind howled like a werewolf on a full-moon night and whipped the water falling from the sky around. The backyard was a mess of mud and the occasional sprig of grass. It had been raining for the past ten days and the rain, mixed with the unbearable cold made the Burrow not seem as cheery. Ginny was glad she was not at Hogwarts, the cold stone walls did not keep heat in well.
Fred and George were at work, Wheezly Wizard Wheezes having taken off quite well at the beginng of the summer, due to their spectacular departure from Hogwarts. Bill was at work also, though he might have taken lunch off to spend time with Fleur, his new finacee. Charlie, who had come home for Christmas (or at least that was his excuse, he was reaslly there for the Order) was out with their mother, shopping which left just Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Harry at the Burrow. Percy no longer counted.
Ron and Hermione were in the kitchen, talking Ginny supposed the warmth of the fire illuminating their growing relationship that had yet to cast off. They'd been dancing around each other and Harry all year, Ron sneaking shy glances when he thought no one was looking and Hermione letting her eyes follow him around the room. It was almost funny to watch, they both had their doubts, most of said doubts concerning Harry, but when they were alone, together, The-Boy-Who-Lived did not bother them. And Harry? Well, presently Ginny wasn't quite sure where he had gotten off to. More than likely he was sitting in Ron's room, staring at the chessboard and wondering where on earth his best friends had gotten off to.
So Ginny climbed the stairs to her safe-haven alone, pulled down the steps above Ron's door and climbed into the attic. The attic was two rooms, connected by one door. The first room was just storage, plain, boring, and right above Ron's room. It was where the ghoul normally chose to lurk, as there was more stuff to throw and always caused Ginny to feel as if she was being watched. So she hurried through. The second room was somehow taller than the first. With towering bookshelves, Bill and Charlie had built one summer when boredom pursued them. Cauldrons and trunks of books, most of them seperated by subject sat on the floor and three large armchairs, their stuffing coming out around the arms sitting around a chessboard and a coffee table. It was cozy, comfortable and the single, large window let enough light in, even on rainy days, to read by. And the best part? It was always deserted.
She pushed the second door open and stopped short as a black head, with green eyes and wire-rimmed glasses looked up at her and back down at his book dismissively. What was Harry doing here? She took a few tentative steps into the room, annoyed that her refuge had been disturbed by one of the people she was trying to escape.
"Hi Ginny." He spoke, eyes not glancing up from his book as she strode over to one of the cauldrons and bent over, determined to ignore him.
It wasn't that she didn't like Harry. No, she liked him just fine. It was just that this was her house and her safe-haven and he had intruded, however un-knowingly, upon it. She just wanted to be alone, by herself, away from everyone else and, for a moment she contemplated retreating to her room before discarding the idea. Her room was bright pink, and not mellow enough to read in. She could, always, ask him to leave though.
Straightening up she turned to him and was about to ask him to go when her conciense stopped her; she couldn't ask Harry to leave, it wasn't fair. His best friends were downstairs, excluding him, they would soon be part of something Harry could never share with them, the least Ginny could do was share her hide-away with him.
Ginny plopped down in one of the armchairs, cracking open he potions text and beginning to read only to find that it was harder with Harry in the room. Eveyrthing seemed to be magnified, the eratic tapping of the rain on the glass, Harry's steady intake of breath, her own intake of breath. Concentration was limited and finally she looked up, after a few minutes, to find that, while Harry was looking down at his book, he wasn't actually reading. Ginny couldn't help but wonder if he had been reading at all.
"What are you thinking about?" She finally asked, putting her book down and letting her eyes wander his face. He didn't look all that bad, at least, not as bad as at the beginning of the school year. When they all arrived back at Hogwarts, Harry looked, if anything, like he had just escpaed Azkaban. He was gaunt. Now, after three months of Hermione fussing about how much he ate, he was back to looking like Harry. If not just a bit older.
Harry looked up at her, closed his book, opened it again and sunk further back into his chair before trading her gaze for staring blankly out the window and answering, "Voldermort." Ginny immediatley flinched and, even though he wasn't looking at her, Harry apaologized quickly, "Sorry."
"Why?"
This time he held her gaze, his brow furrowed before shrugging, "I don't know, because I can't get my mind around it."
"No, I mean…" Ginny trailed off and shook her head, returning her eyes to her book. Minutes later, however, she couldn't hold her question back, "You're not really sorry, are you?"
His green eyes bore into her brown ones as his set jaw turned to a frown, "What?"
"You're not really sorry." She took a deep breath, wondering why she would test the boundries of her friendship with Harry so liberally. "When you say You-Know-Who's name, you always aplogize but you're not really sorry, are you?"
"What do you mean?" He seemed rather confused, his eyes showing the utter bewilderance that was missing from the rest of his face.
"You always say you're sorry." She repeated, "But then you go right on and you say it again, so you're not really sorry."
For the longest time Ginny thought she had pushed him over the edge. He had been so close, teetering on the brink of emotional madness all year and she had delievered that fatal push. His eyes refused to meet hers until finally, taking a deep breath, he answered, "No. No, Ginny, I'm not really sorry."
Her relief was so great that she smiled, if only a tiny bit before asking her next question, the confusing in her tone contradicting her smile, "Why? Why apologize if you don't mean it? And why say it?"
"Because it bothers people." He replied sullenly, "I don't think before I say it and when I relaize it bothers them I have to say something, its rude not to." Ginny had the smallest amount of time to wonder how a boy brought up in such harsh conditions could be so well-mannered before her continued, "And we can't all live in fear of his name, Hermione says it now and I don't see how you and Ron can be so scared of his name and yet force me to let you go with me." Ginny blushed, she had forgotten about her pushy methods last year. "I'm just not sorry."
She nodded and returned to her book, mulling over the information he had given her. Finally she looked up to find him glancing at her over the top of his book. "Then I'm not either."
He stared at her, "What?"
"I'm not sorry when you say Voldermort."
Harry smiled.