Birthday fic for J, originally posted over on lj. Ginny/not!Harry. Enjoy
Ginny Weasley sometimes wonders what love is.
She loves Harry Potter, and is confident in that fact. Or at least she had been, until last summer.
Surely, she thinks, love is what Ron and Hermione are doing. They love each other enough to go on their quest and face the dangers that it holds hand in hand, just like they have been doing for the past six years. Harry hasn't made Hermione stay behind, and Ron wouldn't dream of doing so because he needs her with him and he knows it.
A small voice in Ginny's mind makes her wonder if Harry needs her at all, but she pushes it away. She decides that Harry loves her enough to dread the thought of anything happening to her, and leaving her behind was the best way in which to protect her. A larger, angrier part of her- the part which snuck into the broomstick shed for years until she could play Quidditch, the part which fought back Tom Riddle for the best part of a year, the part that never backs down when challenged and is unafraid- flares up at the condescension in his order to stay behind, and she berates herself for agreeing to it.
Stay behind. He made it sound so easy, but in reality it is anything but. Hogwarts is dying, and the Wizarding World dies alongside it, with the last shreds of their hopes resting on a group of four teenagers.
Oh yes. Four. This train of thought is unpleasant and Ginny tries to block it out, but she cannot help wondering if, on the bitter stormy nights which have become increasingly common this winter, Harry has taken more comfort in Luna than just that of her being the key to Voldemort's Ravenclaw Horcrux but Harry wouldn't do that and Ginny wonders why she has thought it and tries to stop the thought but it is there now vivid and unpleasant in her mind and she cannot unthink it though she tri-
The last letter from Harry- six weeks old now and worn from the touch of Ginny's fingers- crumples in her hand. She gasps, realising what she's done, and scrambles frantically to smooth out the parchment before the words lose their legibility completely. It is futile. In her anger, she has crushed the paper to pieces. She throws the scraps into the fireplace and they miss the coals, taunting her as they remain unharmed.
The portrait swings open with a creak and Ginny starts slightly in her seat, clutching her dressing gown closed to ward off the draught. It is only Neville, of course, and she knows this. They have developed a routine since he first found her alone in the Common Room after spending the night working with Pomona Sprout on plant medicines necessary for the war effort. Sure enough, the footsteps lead closer to her seat by the fire, and his hands- rough and callused from the dangerous work he's had to do this year- gently press a steaming cup of tea into hers. She looks up at last and meets his eyes, and the expression in them overwhelms her until she has to look away in order to stop the strange feeling she can sense inside of her, waiting near the surface, ready to burst forth. When she can bear to look back up, he has taken his usual seat opposite her. His gaze flickers to the fireplace grate, back up to the faint tear tracks on her face and then he fixes it steadily on a section of the carpet and makes small talk. How're you, Ginny, yes, I'm fine too, the pomegranates for the Strengthening Solution have been grown nearly to the right size and will soon be given over into Professor Slughorn's capable hands.
Small talk seems to be all they do nowadays. They cannot face the big talk, skirting around the fact that Neville is having to help the teachers at all, that the Ministry Aurors are desperate enough to turn to Hogwarts to manufacture necessary potions for them, that it is Slughorn making the potions because Snape killed Dumbledore and exposed himself as a traitor less than a year ago. The big talk fills Ginny's head nearly to bursting and she yearns to talk to Neville, question him until her curiosity is satisfied and spill out all of her worries and concerns onto his ears, but she knows that mentioning any of those things would somehow ruin their time together, shatter their fragile world of peace with the remembrance of one unspoken name- Harry.
Dimly, she realises that he is speaking again, and she looks up. This time, she is unable to tear herself away. His eyes- dark-brown-almost-black- are so full of…so full of…
Maybe it is something in the way in which the dim firelight reflects in them, or the angle at which she is seeing his face, as though for the first time, but Ginny finally realises that the expression which he is so openly and unconsciously wearing is one that she has never, will never, see on Harry's face, and this is enough for her.
…love. She walks to him slowly, each step seeming to last an eternity. Bending down slightly, she angles her face to his and their lips meet in a ghost of a kiss. Quicker than she can see, his hands reach up to her face and hold her close to him as he kisses her, again and again. Behind them, unnoticed, a slight breeze from a half-open window blows the remains of Harry's letter into the fire.
Ginny realises that love is not hers to question, and decides to experience it instead.
Concrit always appreciated :)