Disclaimer: Didn't own it yesterday, am not Jo Rowling today.
A/N: I realized I haven't written anything Harry/Ginny and was sad. I mean, I managed to write Hosepipe/Harry but not Orange Crush? Anyway, this is Harry POV, Post-HBP, with minor HBP spoilers, takes place at the wedding.
Read, enjoy, review.
"I'm not promising to wait."
It is the first thing she's said to him all night and Harry, for one, misses the silence.
She is leaning against one of the slumping trees that grace the Weasley's property, her golden dress robes simmering in the summer moon light, her hair pulled up and away from her pale shoulders.
She looks beautiful and tragic and Harry wonders if that's his fault too.
He looks at her silently from his spot across from her, wondering what exactly he is supposed to say. There's only so much he can say in the end and his pulse quickens within his veins like it used to before when she would catch his gaze.
But she's not looking at him now; instead her eyes linger on the wedding they left behind. The music drifts over to them on the summer breeze that plays with her hair and her dress and the grass and he knows, somewhere, some divine power is having a good laugh at him.
"Never asked you to."
He cringes at his choice of words and notices she's standing a little straighter.
"No, you wouldn't now, would you?" There's no sadness in her voice, no hardness. She says it matter-of-factly, as though she were only telling him the latest Quidditch scores.
There is no comfort in the moment, nothing telling or sudden.
What it is, Harry thinks as she pushes off the tree, is the end. She will go back to the party and enjoy whatever there is to enjoy and he will remain and think or perhaps brood. That will be that.
No whispered good byes in the shadow of the moon, no declarations of love that have been ripening until the opportune moment, no promises of patience or return. Those, he is sure, would taste too much like lies.
She surprises him however; instead of walking away she leans against him, pressing her mouth to the corner of his lip. "Remember Harry." She does not tell him what to remember, instead she kisses him again and again, hidden beneath the darkness of the sagging benches, as the music floats around them.
This he can remember, as easily as any moment shared with her, this he can keep close, keep safe.
And when she slips away from him, a small smile on her lips, her eyes dancing, Harry wonders if some part of her won't wait after all.
End
Every time you review, a skinny British kid with glasses discovers he's a wizard.
