There and Back Again Lane

by Mangykneazle

Fearful of attacks by the remaining Death Eaters after Voldemort’s final defeat, the Ministry Obliviates a grievously injured Harry and ‘re-integrates’ him into Muggle society. Five years later, Harry has just completed his studies at university and is en

8. There's Too Much Love

There and Back Again Lane

Ch. 8 – There's Too Much Love

Edinburgh

---(Ginny's POV)---

Falling back into the past. It all seems so much clearer now.

Late May, my supplemental Seeker practice lengthening with the days. Harry stands on the pitch, shouting praises and advice that flutter through the breeze and cusp my ears like flowers. I take a chance and stop looking for the snitch to catch a glimpse of Gryffindor's unofficial manager in all his messy, dark-haired glory. Instead of seeing him standing on the green grass of the centre circle, hands cupped to his mouth for a makeshift megaphone, he lays battered, burnt, and bleeding on scorched earth, a young woman kneeling beside him, muttering. Unconsciously, my hands fly to cover my mouth gaping with shock, sending me off balance momentarily. Faintly, I hear him yelling at me.

'Ginny! What are you doing?' I can't tell whether he's concerned or angry. His face is strangely obscured by distance... 'The snitch was inches from your ear!' Angry, the git. And here I was panicking, imagining him dead. Probably just worried about his precious Firebolt. I'll kill him myself, I think, save old Tom the bother. If I didn't like the tosser so much, I'd at least hex him into next week.

'Shut it, Potter.' Clever comeback. I head to the team entrances. I've had enough of his tantrums, indifference, and self-pity to last several lifetimes. The sooner he's out of my life the better. Then why am I so miserable? This, too, shall pass. I hope.

He's calling to me, running, but I pay no heed. I just want off the pitch and to wash the images from me along with the sweat. In my agitation, however, I can't unfasten my Quidditch surcoat. As I try to pull it over my head uttering a constant stream of curses, I hear Harry enter the team room.

'Ginny, what's the matter?'

'Nothing!'

'Bollocks. You and your man have a row?'

I stop struggling with the surcoat and glower at him. He knows I haven't had a boyfriend in seven months, which makes the question all the more galling. 'Since when were you interested in my lovelife, Potter?'

'Since you failed to notice a snitch two inches from your ear, Weasley.'

I notice then the bloody thing's squirming in my hand. How I caught it, I'll never know. Probably explains the difficulty I was having with the cloak. 'Is this what you want?' I fling the snitch at his head. It makes half the distance before changing course. Annoyingly, he looks impressed. 'Then sod off!'

'Ginny, tell me.'

'Why?'

'Because I've some fairly incriminating stories Ron told me.'

'You wouldn't dare...'

'Try me.'

'I'll hex you into eternity!'

'I'll risk it.'

'Bastard.'

'No sweet-talking out of this one, Ginny.'

I collapse on to a bench and stare at the ground. 'It's nothing.' I can't look at him. The anger's passed but the vision remains. I'm afraid that when I look at his face it will be blistered and blackened. I've seen that too many times already.

'Ginny, look at me.' What am I, five? I'm only a year younger than him. But I hear him come over and kneel in front of me. His hand clasps gently on to my shoulder, squeezes lightly. You can't make me. I want to swat his hand away, or to hold it. It's disconcerting how he's trying to soothe my irritation. I shut my eyes afraid of the dampness cresting on their lids.

He lifts my chin gingerly with a crooked finger as a pair of tears trail down my cheeks. I could hate him for reducing me to this state if it wasn't for the urge to hold him, for him to assure me the vision was just a nightmare. But that would be a lie I'm not willing to tell.

'I Saw you die.' The words escape my lips before I realise it.

'When?' It's a peculiar comfort that he believes me. His voice is detached, analytical. Why doesn't he laugh it off, or say something to minimise the grief that threatens to overwhelm me? Why must the git be so focused on that sodding prophecy? He releases my chin and sits before me.

'The summer before my fifth year.'

Now he laughs. 'Well, that explains a few things.' What's he talking about? Oh. I'm tempted to slap the smirk off his face. 'Don't worry, I'll keep schtum; I have for this long.' How can he do that? Must be a by-product of the Occlumency training. That and making him a slightly better-tempered version of Snape. (Shudder.) 'What did you See exactly?'

No matter how many times the images have replayed in my head, they don't become any easier to relate. Describing them to him is a special torture. Here he is before me, young, handsome, alert, strangely attentive, yet there he is, broken on the wheel of fortune, barely recognisable. I tell him of walking through the ranks of the dead and dying to find him, and what I eventually discover. When my voice starts to waver, he grasps my hand and squeezes for an instant. But he's unaffected by my words, nodding patiently like it's common gossip. Still, it's a comfort to see his eyes so clear, full of life. Then why am I shivering? Noticing me shuddering and rocking back and forth, he sits next to me, holds me in a fraternal embrace, and whispers platitudes in my ear. Yet I can't stop shaking even when I put my arms around him. 'You don't seem to be breathing...'

He pulls me away slightly, raising my chin to look at my face. 'Did you see him?' Tom. Don't want to think about him, had enough nightmares about him already. I don't want to answer the question for fear what he might do when the time comes.

'Yes,' I whisper. 'I think so.' He's the charred one with the great silver blade sticking through him, isn't he? I hope so. 'He's dead.' Too.

'Are you certain?' My head jerks in a pantomimic nod. 'Did you see anyone else around us?' He wipes my tears away with the cuffs of his robes.

'Hermione's sitting next to you saying something.'

'Any idea what?'

Can't answer that question. Please, no. Doesn't he deserve to know, a part of me demands. Don't listen to it...

'"He did it, he did it."' Bugger. I've sealed his fate. 'Maybe it's all just déjà vu, Harry,' I plead. 'Maybe it's just a stupid nightmare.' He knows I don't believe that, though.

'How clear were your senses?' Another shudder, and he squeezes me closer to him. But all I can think of is the smell of death, the smoke, the faces and bodies. I'm going to boak. 'You don't have to tell me.' We're so close now, but all I want to do is find some place to be sick. Still, he holds me, tells me not to worry. That pulls me out of my horrible reverie. I push him away, off the bench, a look of astonishment flooding over Harry's face.

'Everything will not be OK, Harry!' I shout. 'You'll be dead. Where does that leave the rest of us?' I grab on to the neck of his robes. 'Why don't you even care anymore?' Releasing him, I storm to the other end of the room and gather his Firebolt.

'Ginny, you don't understand.' I turn to see him clenching his jaw as he's desperately controlling his temper, but I glower back.

'What don't I understand? That you're blissfully heading towards death like some idiot martyr?' His eyes squint from the impact of my words and the jaw releases. 'Of course I don't!'

He slumps back on to the bench and sighs. 'Please, Ginny, just sit,' he asks patting a space next to him. Flummoxed but still furious, I sit on a nearby bench instead. 'I never told you, any of you, the entirety of Trelawney's prediction.' He leans forward as recounts precisely what he saw in Dumbledore's Pensieve two years ago.

'That doesn't mean you have to die, Harry,' I declare hoping to convince myself.

'But it is a possibility.' He moves towards the chalkboard. 'And your vision tends to confirm it.'

'When has that fraud ever been right?' I scream.

'The night Pettigrew returned to Voldemort's side.' I quaver both at the forgotten revelation and its implication. 'It's a small price to pay, Ginny, when it allows so many others to survive.'

'Bollocks!' Let volume succeed where reasoned argument fails.

'Hermione'll live,' he states. 'You'll live. That ought to count for something.'

I rush towards him and punch him square in the chest. 'You won't die!' Though he winces and falls back a step, he won't be convinced. I hit him again.

'Ginny!' He grabs my wrists before I can assail him again. My eyes, to my shame, are drowning in tears. There are trails down his cheeks as well. 'It might happen.' He fixes me with a stare as I try to wrestle away, imploring me to accept the cruel whim of fate. My knees give way, but he keeps me upright, hugging me tightly. I feel safe but vulnerable. I want to be strong. Yet in his arms I feel my breathing deepen, my head drop to his shoulder, my arms to my sides.

Then he kisses my head, and, as I lift my chin, my lips. I doubt that either of us knew what he was doing.

At first, it is tender, surprisingly so. Just as suddenly, though, it becomes ferocious. His teeth begin to bite down on my lower lip. Terrified, I open my eyes to a feral expression. Harry, too, realises what's happening and pushes me back, not too hard but enough for me to stumble. His scar, covered somewhat by his hand, is bright red and blood begins to seep through his fingers. He turns abruptly and punches the chalkboard, a sickening crack filling the air.

'Sorry, Ginny,' he pleads, fatigued. 'You shouldn't have had to experience that, not after what you've been though.' Slumps to the floor, cradling his arm. 'I guess it's more Occlumency lessons for me.' He laughs bitterly. 'Pain does have a way of keeping him at bay, though,' showing me his bloodied hand.

'Harry—'

'Just leave, Ginny, please,' he requests. 'It's not your fault. Not your problem.'

'At least let me take you—'

'No.' It's muttered but conclusive. 'Please.'

Frustrated, I snatch the snitch as it flies past me and leave Harry to brood or occlude his mind, whichever, in peace.

The kiss confuses me. We flirted briefly in my fifth year, and I snogged him those two times, but that was the first time he initiated. Until Tom took over.

I spend an hour walking along the lake's shore trying to think what to say to Harry when I return to the common room. Most of what I feel is anger. I'm no porcelain doll. I battled against Tom my first year, too, and I had no help. Eventually, I succumbed, but I was able to hold him off for a time. If nothing else, I could bolster Harry in the trying times, give him some of my strength. But didn't his tentative kiss change things? It was hesitant, stumbling, but intentional. I need to confront him about that, too. Harry (then) is nothing if not deliberate, and who knows what might have happened if Tom hadn't intervened. I'm not so foolish to believe he would have confessed his undying love for me on the team room floor after we'd shagged ourselves raw. The Hogwarts wards covering the castle and outbuildings would've prevented the latter – why else do you think so many students are on the grounds into late October, or why I gave that pillock Sloper a shiner when he suggested it – while I doubt whether Harry would admit to anything. And before I'm aware of it, I hear the Fat Lady cough gently to gain my attention.

I yearn to find Harry in the common room, but when he isn't there the anger – at myself, at Harry, and especially at Tom – takes hold again. Ron and Hermione are puzzled and concerned when I emerge back through the portrait hole. To avoid any conversation at the moment I kick a chair out of my way and thunder up to the girls' dormitories. What I was going to tell Harry eludes me now, but the sentiment is as strong as ever. Hermione comes up, but I tell her to sod off – albeit more politely – saying that it was only another row about Seeking. She gives me this obnoxious knowing look, but doesn't inquire further.

How did I feel about Harry then? After that episode in the Forest – despite having bested Malfoy – Harry's behaviour made me rethink whether I ought to waste my time on him any longer. When he chased after Bellatrix Lestrange, ignoring us in his grief, I began wondering if I'd confused foolhardiness with bravery. Was it just a silly schoolgirl infatuation, a hold-over from my first-year crush? I asked myself if this flawed young man worth loving. And the answer, no matter how many times I toyed with the question, how I played with the rules, was, is yes.

Yet no matter how much I love him, I can't face him after having lied so long, not after what happened in London. I'm sick of complicating his life, and of him, mine. But slumber traps me here. If I see him, I know I'll stay.

There's tapping on the window, but I can't open my eyelids to see what, or whom it might be.

---(Owl's POV)---

A screech owl waits patiently outside the bedroom window, a letter tied carefully to his claw. The red-headed woman within lay dead to the world. Another series of beak taps on the window is answered by some slight stirring from sleeping beauty, but otherwise nothing. Humans. A sudden movement catches his attention. Breakfast...

---(Ginny's POV)---

Harry's parting words haunt me. Especially you. Was it to him just the latest betrayal after two years of lies? I can't, don't want to believe he thinks so ill of me. Perhaps he simply didn't trust me to not wipe out other memories, or to reduce him into some sort of servant. Maybe he meant it would be worse if I Obliviated him because he loved me. Besides, what if I told him all of that nonsense yet he never recovers his memory? Too many variables...

Drifting off again.

Must be dreaming of a pub as the scent of smoke, sweat, and drink permeate the air. Something brushes against my cheek but leaves before I can swat it away.

The smell of coffee wakes me. He must be home.

---(Harry's POV)---

I survey two tins of Irn Bru shiver slightly along with the paracetamol bottle as the train winds its way gracefully towards Waverley. Four tablets later and the wee man in my head has given up his drill for a hammer. The foul taste in my mouth has been washed away somewhat, but caffeine and dread cause my hands to shake. That dream has rattled me. We did know each other from before, were familiar though how so I've no idea.

It must be frustrating for her to be around someone who can't even remember any of the old jokes, as it will be for me to catch up with seven missing years. Or more if subsequent images were true. Being chased about and otherwise tormented by some lumbering pair of biped pigs, Animal Farm rejects or something. And some creature that must have been a perversion of Irma Prunesquallor… None of the three resembled my parents in any way. Maybe that was just a wretched nightmare.

I stop at a shop on Minto Street on my way home to purchase a few bottles of juice to battle the hangover. Tell myself I won't drink so much ever again, and hope this time it's the truth. By the time I get to the flat, it's 11.30. As I clamber up the steps, I've little hope she'll still be there. But when I open the door, her bags are piled near the entrance and the door to the bedroom is slightly open, revealing her curled form just under the covers. I give her a peck on the cheek she belatedly tries to fend off before wandering into the kitchen to brew some coffee. With two hours of sleep and too much caffeine and drink flowing through me, it's a surprise I'm moving so calmly. She's back, she's here. I can only hope she'll stay.

Fifteen minutes later she stumbles into the kitchen, her face bearing pillow marks, her hair askew. Though she'd kill me to say it, she's very cute in the morning. Resolutely, she heads towards the coffee pot.

As she passes I clasp her wrist. 'We have to talk.'

'Isn't that my line?' She glares at me and wrenches her arm away before collecting her coffee and moving back towards the bedroom.

---(Ginny's POV)---

I could take it if Harry was just angry with me, but the disappointment on his face is more than I can bear. 'Why did you leave?' he inquires. That's just annoying.

'I could ask the same of you,' I growl back.

'I asked first.' Oh, very mature, Mr. Potter. 'Besides, you know why.'

Especially you. What did he mean by that? 'I didn't want to be bothered by some specky ickle git who can't hold his drink.' Wait a moment for the words to impress themselves in his wee brain. He doesn't blanch, just sits there with the same perturbed expression. 'Reason enough?'

'But you didn't just leave the hotel, you're planning to leave here as well.' He points to my bags in the hall. 'I can understand not wanting to face me in that condition. You're buggering off completely, though.' He drains his coffee, allowing the cup to rattle on the kitchen surface. 'Explain that.'

'What the hell were you doing all that time, I might ask!' I feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, the mug vibrating in my hand.

'As you surmised, I went for a pint or few.' He's trying to be calm, but I notice he's fidgeting. 'Ran into Fred and we started talking.' Now I'm starting to get worried again. What did my evil brother tell him? 'He brought me back to the hotel. You can ring him or whatever if you don't believe me.' When I look in his eyes, I can tell he isn't lying. Yet it's not altogether comforting.

---(Harry's POV)---

'So when did you leave London?' I can feel my voice straining a little as I try to remain calm.

'About two,' she winces with her answer. It was a silly ploy that surprisingly worked. The mug shatters, sending milky coffee on to the floor and her dress.

'You were willing to wait until two when I'd likely come back pished to the gills, then you leave?' My brow furrows, my lips get tighter. 'That makes no sense.' I wait for her to answer, but she only stands there, looking out the kitchen window.

Finally, she turns back towards the bedroom and closes the door. I knock and inquire whether she's OK, but she doesn't answer. The mess in the kitchen is dealt with while our private disaster gets worse. A quarter-hour later, the door opens as she announces she's leaving.

'If you leave now, don't bother coming back!' Resorting to shouting at backs, have we? Bloody brilliant. Especially when I hear the door slam, followed by my head rebounding off the kitchen table.

---(Ginny's POV)---

That wee prick! I slam the front door, toss my bags back into the hall, and storm into the kitchen, vaguely aware that my eyes are twitching from nervous rage, fists clenched to pound his smug face. If I hadn't forgotten Hedwig I would have left.

'You, give me an ultimatum?' I don't care it's morning. Bugger the downstairs neighbour beating a tattoo with a broom. Sod the screeching baby next door. 'Who buggered off, leaving his fiancée in an empty hotel room?' Tears are winding their way down my cheeks despite myself. Even so, I'm in full fury.

I can't read his expression at all. He looks like I feel, furious and miserable. Shakes his head and goes for another cup of coffee. 'Don't bloody turn your back on me!' Full cup in hand, he turns and shakes his head again.

'Do you have any idea why I left, or are you just going to keep screaming?'

'I'm not...' But of course I am. The entire tenement's alive and agitated now. Wanker! He's playing it cool now, turning the tables. When this is over, I'll kill him. I slump down in the chair opposite as he fills another mug of coffee for me. How could I forget what he'd said to me, as it broke my heart for the nth time in two days? But I wait until the milk takes effect, stirring it in to gain time. He's so painfully patient. I don't want to ask this question, but it demands to be asked. 'What did you mean by "especially you"?'

---(Harry's POV)---

Be direct or deflect?

I wish I was cleverer. I wish I'd added something to my coffee, I think as it trickles down my throat. Deflect while being direct. 'Why would you think I would want to forget the past two years?'

'You first.' The tone is still stern but her expression softens, waiting for my answer.

Bugger, this is going to be hard. 'I don't know what life we had before, maybe I never will, but the past two years haven't been that bad for you, have they?' She just keeps looking at me impassively. Wrong thing to say.

---(Ginny's POV)---

I'm fighting the impulse to bite my lower lip. To beg him to stop looking so dejected and confess they were the best years of my life. My years of Auror training carry me through, but a voice tells me I've taken the wrong road.

Yet he continues. 'Whatever we had then, I love you now.' He stares at his coffee cup for a while, tenses his fingers around it despite the heat. 'Even if you leave for good today, no one will take those years from me. Not now, not ever.' His eyes bore into mine, a certain ferocity evident within. 'If you offer to do that to me again, I'll know that time meant nothing to you, that I was just some silly plaything for you.' Another pause. 'Now, answer my question.'

I can't.

'I thought you'd hate me,' I blurt. Mind and mouth are meant to be connected. 'I'd rather you forget me than hate me.' The coffee pot is dumb to my prayers for assistance. I'm distantly aware that my knuckles are cracking in my lap. Anything but look into his eyes. Couldn't live with the look of disgust, pity, or ignorant sympathy.

Instead, he kisses me and I travel back seven years to our alcove before the vision intruded. Our arms clasp round each other ever tighter. As we cling to each other, terrified the other would leave, he whispers in my ear. There's an odd fervour there that I find mildly frightening, mildly intoxicating.

'I'm beginning to remember.'