Disclaimer: I don't own anything connected to J.K. Rowling
This chapter is dedicated to A Lack of Color for writing the very first chaptered H/G fic I ever read.
Harry gripped his broomstick, willing himself not to look across the locker room at Ginny again. Ron was winding down his pre-game pep talk minutes before they were due on the pitch. Harry swallowed the sick lump in his throat.
Since breakfast, he'd not seen Ginny anywhere. It hadn't taken him a moment to realize belatedly the depth of his transgression. He was horribly ashamed for teasing her, calling names; the rude words he'd shouted in anger replayed themselves again and again in his head. Guilt burned in the pit of his stomach. Harry had abused and hurt someone because he couldn't deal with his own problems.
The wizard had never felt lower. His self-righteous attitude condemning Malfoy all those years mocked him. Harry had done worse than what he'd been unable to pardon his own father for.
He couldn't focus. Since Ginny had swept into the locker room seconds before Ron's practiced speech, the witch hadn't removed her stony glare from her older brother. She looked every inch the picture of an enchanting ice queen: distanced and regal. Her back was board-stiff, jaw set, the determined look she wore before every game was deeply intensified.
Harry caught her eye as the team huddled together before leaving. He tried to mouth a "sorry," but her coffee brown eyes flickered away instantly.
The whistle sounded and Harry's broom soared in the air with a start. He had to admit it, Quidditch — no matter what — was wonderful. After the team's first practice, he'd flown around by himself for hours reveling in freedom, but now — with the stadium filled with color, Madame Hooch looking yellow-eyed as ever, the fans screaming, adrenaline coursing through his veins, soaring through the air even after the toad Umbridge had done her worst — the seeker was home. Harry flew a couple loop-the-loops to settle his stomach, the rush of wind tosseling his hair. It never got old, the feeling of absolute liberty.
His whoop of joy, however, was effectively interrupted. It just wasn't fair. The few exalting minutes he had in the sky were shot to pieces when Gryffindor scored.
"And Weasley makes the first goal of the game. It's 10-0!" Bugger. He had to go and make a berk out of himself before the game which, of course, jarred his brain whenever he thought about her hurt expression.
Every time Harry caught a flash of Weasley red, he stopped short, vainly anticipating the bright smile Ginny often threw his way during practice.
Concentrate, Harry. He spurred his broom faster, focusing all of his thoughts around the snitch.
"—And another 10 points to Gryffindor! This marks the eighth score for Ms. Weasley today- Wow! Quite a fine ass-et to the . . . sorry McGonagall." The loudspeaker faded into the crowd. Harry scowled again. Just exactly how many people knew the assets of the littlest Weasley?
Against his better judgment, Harry paused in the air to watch the rest of the game. Ginny had the Quaffle again, manhandling her way through the Ravenclaw chasers. Sloper was wide open for a pass, but the redhead wouldn't have any of it. She charged the goals again, pummeling the ball at the opposite Keeper.
"Another 10! Weasley, Go out with me! I'll let you score with my b —" The loudspeaker filled with static. No one ever could quite explain exactly how a rogue bludger managed to end up hurling into the stands and breaking the announcer's nose.
And then, Harry saw it. He breathed an unconscious sigh of relief and darted after the winged snitch. Seeker reflexes kicked in as the boy weaved between players, now only feet away from his target.
WHAM! Harry flipped askance on his broom, sliding sideways on the polished handle. He had been caught totally unprepared for the impact of the opposing seeker. He gasped in surprise, quickly righting himself. That moment of collision was all it took. The snitch was gone. Harry stared after Cho Chang's retreating form —not missing the satisfied twist in her jaw — and cursed himself for allowing her to execute such a simple trick.
He gained altitude, careful to keep a wary eye out for shiny black hair. It was only now, at the far end of the pitch, did the seeker realize that his once acrobatic stomach felt nothing for the attractive Ravenclaw.
That thought brought Harry's head 'round to where he knew Ginny was flying. His best Quidditch instincts screamed at him to focus on the game but were swiftly ignored and shoved aside. He vaguely checked for Cho, who was hovering about 50 yards away, watching him. Real original, Chang.Finding no real threat (to say the least) in the opposition, Harry continued Ginny-watching.
She really had gotten quite pretty. Harry supposed if Aphrodite lived in London, she'd have brilliant, scarlet hair, slender hands, and sensual eyes. And yeah, he had no idea where that came from . . . but whatever. No one ever accused him of being elegant.
With Cho, he'd been smitten from day one. The hair, the mystery . . . the posse of giggling girls. Gag. So, aside from lovely figures, these girls had nothing in common.
Harry frowned; feeling like someone had painfully squeezed his insides together. He didn't want to row with Ginny, yet somehow it was all he was able to do. Well, that or succumb to the recent and frighteningly acute desire to pin her against the nearest wall and make reality out of his dreams. Which, you know, wouldn't work out too well because she most likely despised him right now because of said rows.
Anyway . . . Ginny scored again. Harry winced, knowing full well what it was that fueled her abilities today.
He had hurt her terribly. Maybe it had been the memory of Ginny's slender fingers cupped around her mouth in shock that pounded at his conscience. Maybe it was the disbelief in her eyes that did it. Either way, he missed her dreadfully. At the time it seemed like such a good idea: get even after exchanging hateful and thoughtless barbs. But once his anger had faded away, so did the feeling in him that demanded retribution. Harry hated rowing.
Sudden movement caught his eye. Some Ravenclaw chaser was streaking down the field, Kirke hot on his broomstick. Further on down the pitch, Harry saw Ginny's streamline profile, waiting in perfect position to bottleneck the opposing chaser as he flew by. But wait a second . . . he caught a flash of gold around her ear. Surely she wasn't wearing jewelry?
Harry gasped, reflexes springing into action before conscious realization. He launched himself at her, the tiny, winged snitch zooming unnoticed around Ginny's shoulders. Harry picked up speed, certain to beat Cho, the game was yards — centimeters — millimeters — closer . . his breath caught in anticipation. Harry's outstretched fingers closed around the delicate snitch, capturing it's translucent wings in his palm.
"Harry! What are you —!"
All too slowly came the immediate problem of momentum, objects in motion, himself, and Ginny Weasley- dead on impact. Not good.
For the second time that match, Harry painfully collided with a bundle of robes, brooms, and elbows. Oops. He pulled himself away moments before getting smashed by the onslaught of the rest of the Gryffindor team. Someone was beating congratulations rather painfully on his back, people were shrieking, the smell of sweat clogged the mass cluster.
He caught her toffee eyes somewhere in the middle and winced. As if he weren't enough of a bloke, hurling into her, broom and all, wasn't very endearing. Harry looked pointedly at the snitch still in his fingers, shrugging. No dice. Ginny rolled her eyes, shot him a dirty look, and disappeared into the scarlet and gold mass.
Well, we've won, at least.
xXx
"'S'up mate, you look . . . peaky." Harry was sprawled in his favorite armchair, sipping his pumpkin juice, and trying very hard to ignore the stream of confetti bewitched to float about the room, dumping itself on random party-goers.
He grunted noncommittally. "Seen Ginny?" There was no point in pretending her absence had nothing to do with his spirits. Ron shook his head. "We rowed again," he grunted, answering the silent inquiry.
"Oh."
Just then, a mass of bushy curls slid into the chair next to him. Hermione had a pasty in one had and what looked suspiciously like a Weasley sweater in the other. "Oh, Harry! I've been looking for you everywhere! Are you quite alright? You look a bit shattered. Anyway, I think this," she gestured to the maroon clothing in her fist, "is . . . oh. Hullo, Ron." Hermione flushed a deep red.
Harry rolled his eyes at the pair. The witch took a breath to collect herself and continued. "Oh, Ron. Is this yours? I found it just there on the girl's stairs," Ron looked every bit as uncomfortable as she did, his ears a brilliant crimson. "Well, I thought I'd just see, you know, because it's irresponsible to leave your things lying about. And who knows what people might have said, with your clothing all over the girls' . . . and well, here." She shoved the offending garment in his hands and stared resolutely at the table.
"Er- right. Thanks." Ron glanced down at the jumper, a dull maroon that looked small even waded up in his hands. "Actually," he paused, chewing his lip. "Well, this is, er, old. And your mangy cat must've fished it out of my room," he ignored her huff of protest. "Um, well, it obviously doesn't fit, but maybe . . . I mean it was already on the stairs." He stopped speaking, and looked very much like he'd love to run as fast as he could out of the room. "'J'ewannit?"
"Pardon?"
Harry almost laughed at the kill-me-now look on his best friend's face. "I mean, you know, you can — that is — if you want. Youcanavit." He thrust the sweater back at her. Hermione's eyes snapped open even wider, a feat that made her look impressively owlish.
"It's — well, it's yours." Ron scowled. "Fine," he snapped. You don't have to. I was just thinking —"
"I'd love it." The redhead blinked at her. "F-for Crookshanks." She lightly fingered the edge of a cuff. Hermione bit her lip. "Or, you know, if it's really, really cold, and I can't find any of mine, and . . . er, thank you." She took the sweater back and held it against her chest.
Ron visibly relaxed. "Yeah, I mean I've got loads of 'em. Mum won't mind."
Harry had to bite his cheek hard to keep from simply exploding with mirth. He clutched his sides together, shaking with silent laughter. Both his friends were beet-red, smiling timidly at each other. From the way Hermione was holding the sweater, Harry had the distinct impression that the jumper, old and worn as it was, wasn't ever going anywhere near Crookshanks.
"And what is the matter with you?" Hermione's tone had changed back to it's usual businesslike pitch.
"Huh?" He started. Both she and Ron had apparently gotten over their "moment" and were now staring at him expectantly.
"Come on now, what's up? You've been awfully gloomy all this time."
Harry sighed. "Ginny and I rowed again," he repeated in the same toneless manner he had to Ron minutes ago.
"Oh, Harry," Hermione fussed. "Did she say anything about . . . you know, again?"
He shook his head, groaning inwardly. Harry thought he preferred the tiptoeing-on-eggshells approach when it came to his dead family, but now he missed the honest, no-nonsense attitude of Ginny's. "No. This was my fault."
Hermione cast him an odd glance, as if deciding whether or not to say what she was thinking. "What happened?"
He shrugged. "I dunno. After . . . yesterday, when I saw her this morning, I just snapped. I — I said some things. Called her names. I think she wanted to apologize but I lost control."
Hermione chewed her lip, pondering. "Harry," she began slowly. "I saw her a bit after the game. She was in a bad way. The thing is, why would a bit of a fight set her off so? I mean, she has grown up with six prats." The witch shot Ron a half smirk. "I think she'd be used to it."
Ron huffed, glaring across Harry. "Maybe she wasn't used to it coming from Haaarry and all." Hermione slapped him on the shoulder.
"It was weird though," the bespectacled wizard mused out loud. "One minute, she was shouting right back at me, the next . . . it was like someone had flipped a switch."
"You didn't make her . . .cry, did you?" Hermione asked timorously.
"No!"
"No good," Ron interrupted. "Gin never cries. At least, not for real. I think with Gred and Forge she pretends to—" the witch gave a loud, false cough that sounded like 'get to the point.' "Right. Well, what did you say to her?"
Harry thought for a minute. He didn't want to repeat the snide things he'd said, shame welling up inside him, but couldn't see a way out of it. "Er — I didn't mean it. Honestly, I wasn't trying to—"
"We believe you, Harry." Hermione said softly. "Everybody says things they don't mean . . ." Harry didn't miss the shift of her eyes toward Ron.
"Er- I told her I never, you know, wanted to see her again," Harry stumbled over his words. They sounded so much worse now than earlier. "I said she was out of her mind, I—I called her names." He was speaking much faster now. "Said she was foolish, and silly, and just a little girl who didn't know anything." He stared at the empty cup in his hands, waiting for judgment from his friends. Noise of the party was still going strong in the background.
Ron cleared his throat. "Well, then. That wasn't so bad." Harry blinked at him. "Of course I should be right upset that you treated her badly and blah, blah, blah, protective brother stuff, but . . . I've done worse." He frowned. "Much worse, come to think. Ginny's always bounced back, though. Anyway, I know you didn't mean it."
Harry felt an abrupt rush of gratitude for his friend. "Thanks, mate."
Hermione was still carefully watching him, lost in thought, her lips moving silently. Suddenly, the witch clamped her palm to her forehead. Her brown eyes shot open. "Oh, Harry," she breathed, shaking her head.
"What?"
"It has to be," she muttered to herself. "But surely . . . I can't —" Hermione turned to face him. She appeared to be doing a lot of fast thinking. "Harry," she began slowly, choosing her words with great care. "What if — what if what you said wasn't that horrible. I mean, if someone called me foolish, well, there are worse things to be sure . . ." This time Ron coughed loudly. "Harry, can you think of anyone else who may have said something like what you did to her?"
Harry mulled over it, shaking his head slowly. Well, perhaps Peeves. Or Snape. He didn't know. And Malfoy had his share of insults . . . The wizard paused abruptly, an instant years and years ago resurfacing in his memory.
"Little Ginny . . . silly little troubles . . . stupid girl . . . foolish little brat . . ."
Oh. Oh no. Oh hell no. It couldn't be. Harry felt the incredible urge to retch. "Riddle," he choked. "And I said . . . sodding hell." Harry held his head in his hands. No wonder she had been so shocked. Ironic, wasn't it, that her savior from the Chamber turned out to be no less of a low life than Voldemort himself? "She must hate me," he whispered, his voice oddly thick.
Ron made a strange sort of clucking noise. "Of course she doesn't. Well, I doubt it anyway." "Not helping, Ron," Hermione softly chided.
"Will she forgive me? Ever? Oh, the horrible, horrible things I said."
Hermione patted him on the shoulder. "Sure she will. Just . . . explain that you didn't know."
Because that would go over well. 'Hey, Ginny. Look, I'm really sorry about doing a Tom Riddle on you and reliving your worst nightmare. I know I totally and completely shot your trust, but it was only because I wanna snog your brains out and can't deal with that.'
"We Weasleys are a stubborn lot, mate, but she'll come around."
Harry looked at him in disbelief. "You should be beating me to a pulp right now."
Ron coughed. "Yes, well, I think Ginny can handle pulp-beating all by herself. I just know how rotten you must feel about it." He looked away for a second. "Believe me, I do." Harry raised his eyebrows, shooting Hermione a questioning glance. She shrugged. Ron wasn't telling them something.
The gangly redhead shook off his mood and stood up. "Right then. Best of luck with Ginny. You'll need it." He yawned, the tips of his ears flushing when Hermione caught his eye. "I'm off. G'night."
Harry rubbed his temples, too overwhelmed to think of any witty jeers. Hermione had begun to play with the hem of the jumper again, humming softly to herself. "Hermione, if you . . . see Ginny tonight, will you tell her —"
"Of course I will," she said firmly.
"I feel like a right flobberworm," he muttered. It was bad enough when he believed he was lower than Malfoy. Now, he'd reached Dark Lord extremes. "I wouldn't blame her if she never came 'round." His friend patted him again on the arm.
"Harry, we all know you'd never mean that. Never. If I see her, I'll talk to her." She smiled wryly. "Besides, everyone knows you and Ron haven't got enough sense to fill an eggcup." He tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. "I'll see you, Harry. Do try to apologize." And she left as well, leaving Harry alone in the midst of a troll-sized mess from the party.
Harry sighed, heaving himself off the chair. He transfigured a paper cup into a trash bag and began to straighten the room. The wizard didn't want to retire to his room yet, and Hermione would be pleased, at least: less work for the house elves.
Just as he finished with the remains of torn and soggy confetti strewn on the ground, Harry caught sight of two enormous green eyes. "Mr. Harry Potter sir is awake!"
"'Lo Dobby." He smiled at the elf, dressed in his usual assortment of hats, scarves, and socks.
Dobby tutted, making a show of snatching the bag from Harry's fingers. "You is not having to do that, Mr. Harry sir. Dobby is proud to come after so great a match." He gazed up at the wizard in pure adoration. "Dobby is honored to come!"
Harry smiled a bit; all the freedom in the world wouldn't change some things. Hermione should see this . . . "Look, I'm sort of waiting for someone down here," he said, thinking of Ginny (wherever she was).
"Harry Potter is sad!" Dobby wailed, clutching onto his legs like a toddler would his mother.
"Er- no. 'S'alright," Harry murmured, fighting to pry Dobby off of his ankles. "I was just — you wouldn't happen to know where Ginny is, would you?"
The elf turned his lamp-like eyes on him again. "Ahh, Miss Weezy!" He frowned. "Has Harry Potter lost her?"
"Sort of," Harry admitted.
"Dobby is sorry for Harry, that he has lost his lady friend. Dobby sees Miss Weezy around the castle. Sometimes, sir, Dobby finds her alone, or with . . ." Harry could have sworn the house elf was blushing. "with her wizard friends. Miss Weezy visits Dobby in the kitchens. Dobby is pleased to serve friends of Harry Potter!"
Harry coughed, feeling his cheeks grow hot. He fought to keep his voice even. She might be snogging some poxy bloke even now. Harry tried not to let his face fall. "Well, thanks."
"Wait!" The house elf attacked him again, dragging Harry back. "Dobby has seen the young Weezy tonight. On his way here from the kitchens, Dobby spied her." He paused. "Alone."
"Thanks, Dobby." The house elf was smiling at him with a sly grin. "Why is Mr. Harry sir wanting to know?" His cheeky grin broadened.
Harry's eyes widened, considerably shocked at the innuendo laced in his question. "She's my friend," he defended firmly. "It's not like that." The creature immediately looked abashed, his large ears drooping. He burst into tears, flinging himself on the floor with a light thud.
"Forgive Dobby, sir. Dobby believes Harry Potter. Dobby will never question good, kind, humble, great Harry Potter again." Harry jumped forward, alarmed. He half expected Hermione to come ranting down the stairs, steam trailing out of her ears with fury at any moment.
Harry awkwardly patted Dobby on his head. "No, no, no. It's okay. It's fine. Dobby, you don't have to do that. Really, it's alright." The wrinkled, brown, creature nodded, picking himself off the juice-stained carpet, and gave him a watery smile. "Wait here for your Weezy."
Nearly an hour later, the wizard was slumped over in the armchair, fast asleep, still "waiting" for Ginny. He stirred awake when the portrait door creaked open. Harry wiped his mouth, blinking back his sleep. He saw the unmistakable swish of red hair, then ducked behind the back of his armchair. He suddenly wished to be back in his dormitory, hidden from the pretty witch's powerful hexes and temper.
The bespectacled wizard did some quick figuring: his chair faced away from the portrait hole so he wouldn't be seen until she had crossed the centre of the room to go up the girls' stairs. Harry figured he had about 10 seconds. Fate, it seemed, mercifully had other plans. He heard the witch sink into another chair near the exit. At their precise angles, Harry was safely concealed from her view. Harry let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
It was a comic sight. Harry Potter — who had fought the Dark Lord 7 times and survived — twisted behind the tall chair back so Ginny wouldn't see him. His fingers itched toward his wand. Harry peered around the corner for a fraction of a second. He had no idea what the witch was doing, or how long she'd be content to sit there and do it.
He could summon his invisibility cloak and be securely hidden — at the small risk of her seeing his minimally-conspicuous silver cloak whiz through the air. Harry felt his Adam's apple bob. What am I doing?
Harry'd seen Ron angry. He'd experienced Mrs. Weasley's saber-toothed wrath firsthand. But the boy couldn't handle a combination of the two, mixed with the hurt he'd caused. Harry had no idea what he could possibly say to explain himself. He wanted dearly to hold her, tell the witch how very sorry he was, maybe stroke her shiny hair . . .
What he needed was a diversion. Harry stared dully at his wand. In one swift motion, he peered over the chair again, aimed his wand in the opposite direction, and whispered an incantation. Sure enough, a small vase shattered across the room.
Ginny started, turning away from Harry and the boys' stairs. "Accio cloak." In the few seconds it had taken the witch to shake her head and mutter Reparo, Harry had the silver bolt of cloth in his hands.
No sooner had he slipped it over his head, than Ginny called out to the room. "Hello?" Silence. "Seamus, did you pinch Harry's cloak again to see me? Because, you know, that's getting kind of old."
Harry stiffened. Ginny and Seamus rendezvoused together? More than once? And how did Finnigan know that he had the cloak? He made a mental note to do some Gryffindor-sleuthing and eased himself out of his hiding place, facing a whole new barrage of worries.
Yes, he was invisible, but Ginny could just as easily slip the cloak off of him. Would she? And he couldn't very well say anything to her because then she'd know his voice . . . and why the bloody blazes couldn't he be a Gryffindor and have the spine to apologize like a man?
Fortunately for Harry, Ginny wasn't in an attacking mood. She slumped onto the squashy sofa, folding her arms. "Look, I'm not going to beg you to show yourself." He could almost hear her roll her eyes. "So whenever you decide to do whatever it is you came for feel free to let me know. To tell you the truth, I'm getting kind of creeped out."
Harry paused. So, what next? He could actually hear Ron laughing at him in his head. Honestly, Harry couldn't explain it, but he kind of liked the anonymity. He felt . . . empowered. Maybe that's why Finnigan did it. The wizard pulled the fabric closer to his body, careful to remain hidden.
Okay Potter, you're acting fit to be a poof. Do something. Harry silently made his way to the stairs. He paused on the bottom step, looking at Ginny again. She had her feet propped up of the armrest of the sofa, twirling a quill between her fingers. She was half-smiling, like someone had told her a secret she already knew.
Do you hate me? What were you doing all night? Do you know how very pretty you are? Harry smiled at her; it was the only thing he could think of. Somehow, he'd ask her forgiveness. Tonight, though, the wizard couldn't find it in him to scar her serene face with a scowl. (And he was scared magic-less about her reaction)
Harry climbed a step, pulling out his wand one more time. He wanted to leave Ginny with something. Something to say without words that he thought she was beautiful, that he was sorry. And that he wasn't some crazy stalker. Harry whispered an incantation and a silver spark flew across the room, tugging a lock of the witch's fiery hair out of it's bun. It brushed against her cheek, kissing her jaw line.
Ginny fingered the lock, the corners of her mouth parted slightly in flattered surprise. Harry slipped off to his room, not missing the fully-fledged grin that blossomed on to her features.
Harry was changed and lying in his bed before he noticed Ron's usual snores were absent. "Took you long enough," his friend muttered sleepily.
Harry grinned into the darkness, knowing full well Ron hadn't been awake the whole time. "Say Ron. Can I have one of your sweaters? You know, if it's really, really cold . . . ?"
A.N.: I apologize for the lateness of this installment. I've been plodding along, trying to get it right. Nothing too exciting, sorry. Congratulations to all you clever, clever, reviewers who knew what the significance of Harry's comments were! Points for you! Also on The Question, actually, I didn't know the "official" answer was posted anywhere. Next time I'll think of a better one. Anyway, please don't flame me about the whole Ron/jumper thing. I had to do it. Couldn't help it. Yay R/Hr!
CravingPassion I've got to say, your pen-name suits you quite well. And I'm sorry if rows make you uncomfortable, but we're dealing with two very dynamic, temperamental, people who will fight. (R/Hr, anyone?) If done correctly, H/G fights spark great character development and are anthing but stupid. And as for the snogging thing, well — it takes some time to build up the proper emotion foundation before canon characters can have a physical relationship, don't you agree? However, I promise, there will be kissing in the future. And honestly, the difference between smut and real romance is the background developed before all the kissing.
Slugabed: Thank You! No, you rock! (lol) And I know, in the books, Hermione's never abbreviated. But I figured by the middle of sixth year or so, Ron'd call her that to save syllables and give her a pet-name. Notice, that no one else in this fic calls her that. He's special! Thanks, again.
Chelles Ahh, isn't Ron wonderful? I've always thought of him as a really great brother-type. A bit of teasing, making sure no one else does, protective (but not crazy like the common stereotype), and wants to hook her up with HP. Lovely reviews, please let me know what you think!
heenieGah! They're both at fault, eh? You're absolutely right! Hmm, what we'd give for a black and white world. Well, all I can say is that the proverbial "kiss and make up" theory may have it's merits . . .
Wolf's Scream: As always, it's immensely helpful to hear from you. Personally, though, I kinda empathize with both of 'em.
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And now — a special salute to all of my very special reviewers:
Have I told you lately that I love you?
Have I told you there's nothing else above you?
You fill my heart with gladness,
Take away all my sadness,
Ease my trouble, that's what you doooo.
NOTE: Any resemblance from my carefully worded thank you and a certain song is strictly coincidence and not a device used to hopefully skirt around the "no lyrics" ruling. And I really do LUV you loads!
Cheers
WQ
P.S. ONE reviewer has identified a common theme in an aspect of my chapters. That theme is also a clue- to when the first kiss will be. Can you find it?
Hint If your stressing about this puzzle, don't fret. Stay on the brightside of things.