The week races by, each day marked by new developments in the World Cup: Japan defeat Canada, then Italy; Bulgaria are flattened by Peru (and Ron suggests opening up a bottle of prosecco to celebrate). Suddenly another Sunday morning is upon us, and I'm up with the sun, sat in my basement kitchen beside a burnt-out Hoover that's ready to transport the four of us to Iceland at a moment's notice.
"Why've we got to be there so early?" asks Ron from the kitchen table, where he's slumped forward, chin on his folded arms, eyes puffy from lack of sleep. "The match isn't until tonight."
"Kingsley arranged it that way," I remind him. "He reckons that the earlier I get there, the less chance there is of me being… well-"
"Recognized," says Hermione. She lifts a hand to her mouth to cover a gaping yawn. "It's not a terrible idea."
"I'll let the Minister know you approve."
As she glares at me, I pick up my coffee cup and drain it into my mouth. I'm considering a refill when the fireplace lights up in a rush of green flames, and there stands Ginny. Rucksack over one shoulder, she looks just as disgruntled by the early hour as the rest of us.
"Whoa," she says, dusting soot off her jeans as she steps into the kitchen. "I haven't been here in so long, it's… different."
My memory pulls me back to the Christmas of my fifth year: the attack on Mr. Weasley; the overnight vigil we held here with bated breath; Ginny curled up by the fire with the light reflecting in her eyes. It must have been the last time she was here.
"Oh, yeah, I've fixed it up," I say as she surveys the room. "It was a bit…"
"Creepy?"
"Yeah."
Plainly disinterested in discussing home renovation, Ron hauls himself to his feet with a groan. "Should we get going, then?"
Ginny looks over at me and gives a decisive nod. "Let's do it."
After gathering up all of our supplies, including two enormous boxes of food courtesy of Mrs. Weasley, we form a circle around the burnt-out Hoover. With my fingertips hovering inches from its plastic surface, I just hope that this World Cup is better than the last.
Our Portkey deposits us unceremoniously onto cold, hard ground. As I pick myself up, the vertigo subsides and my surroundings come into focus.
Kingsley said Iceland when he gave us the tickets. For months, all of the World Cup adverts have said Iceland. But where we really are is one of a tiny chain of islands off the south coast of Iceland. The sky above us is iron-grey and a cold, briny wind whips off the North Atlantic Ocean. There's no shoreline the way there is in Cornwall, no gentle recession of land into water, just jagged cliffs rising hundreds of feet above the waves. In the distance, the Quidditch stadium looms, surrounded by a vast sea of tents.
"So, where to?" asks Ron, his cheeks already pink from cold.
"I've got a map," I recall, and pull the parchment from my back pocket.
As I try to make sense of it, Ginny peers curiously over my shoulder. She's so close that I can smell her hair, flowery and tantalizing as ever, and when I steal a glance at her, I can make out every single one of her long, fair eyelashes. Her proximity does nothing for my concentration; I've got to retrace a path three times before any of it sticks in my brain.
This definitely means something, doesn't it? There's no logical reason for her to be a welcome intruder in my personal space like this. Maybe, like me, she just wants to be close.
"It looks like our campsite is on the other side of the pitch," Ginny states, pointing to a small, looping trail on the right side of the map. "Maybe it's less crowded over there."
Oh. Perhaps she really was just reading.
As we set out across the frosty grass, Hermione is practically beside herself with excitement, and not at all because of the Quidditch.
"These islands are mostly uninhabited," she gushes, gripping Ron's arm with a gloved hand. "It's actually a small chain of volcanoes - most of them are under the ocean, but there was a relatively recent eruption here on the main island-"
"Relatively recent?" Ron repeats, rightfully alarmed. "How recent are we talking, exactly?"
"About twenty-five years ago," says Hermione with a casual wave of her hand. "Anyway, the lava destroyed part of the main village-"
"That's comforting," Ron quips. "Thanks for all this. I'll definitely sleep well tonight."
"The odds of any eruption happening here today are incredibly low," Hermione tells him. "Muggles actually monitor these things-"
"Do they? How?"
As they carry on discussing seismic activity, Ginny and I drop back to walk behind them, not interested in embroiling ourselves in the discussion. We don't converse, but it isn't a tense silence like it might have been a few weeks ago. I've never been good at lulls in conversation - that's one of the reasons Ron and Hermione are so good to have around, neither of them knows how to shut up - but I don't feel the usual desperate need to fill this one. It's nice just to exist with her.
We're in one of the very last campsites, situated just metres from the edge of a cliff. Ron drops his bags and conjures up a fire while Hermione pulls both tents out of her beaded bag and tasks herself with assembling them. Unlike the last World Cup, where the campgrounds were managed by Muggles and therefore use of magic was discouraged, this particular part of the island is occupied only by witches and wizards. The tents stand upright with just a few waves of Hermione's wand, and Ron casts a Shield charm around our area to keep the wind from extinguishing the fire. It feels like déjà vu, watching him walk around a tent casting a protective spell, but this one isn't a matter of life and death. We're safe here, and it isn't the flimsy sort of safety we had last year, where one toe out of line could and would put our lives in grave danger. My biggest concern is what will happen once people catch wind that I'm here.
Until, of course, Ron stows his and Hermione's overnight bags away into one of the tents, and my stomach plummets.
"We need water," I decide at once, patting my pocket to double-check for my wand. "Ron, come help me."
"Er…" Ron looks up from where he's now kneeling by the fire, digging through a crate of food. "I was going to make breakfast-"
"We'll need water for that."
"I'm not boiling anything," he replies, puzzled. "Actually, I think I figured out a way to make bacon over the fire-"
"We're going to need it eventually." I pin him with what I hope is a subtly coercive stare. "Just come with me."
He must get the message, because he rises to his feet and brushes his hands off against his jeans. "Yeah, all right. Have we got a pail?"
I hadn't considered this - I'm not actually fussed about the water at all, as the tents have sinks and we have wands to conjure it ourselves - and I'm just hoping that we're on our way before the girls cotton on to this - but we do locate a pail in one of the tents. Ron kisses Hermione goodbye, and we set out across the campgrounds.
"So I know what you told your mum," I say as soon as we're out of earshot of the girls, "but what are the actual sleeping arrangements?"
Ron shrugs. "Me and Hermione, and you and-" It clicks into place. "Oh. Oh."
"Yeah," I say curtly. "Oh."
"So just stay with me and Hermione, then," he says as we wind around a tent draped with a massive Peruvian flag. "It'll be just like old times."
"I can't do that," I say. "I don't want to interfere."
Ron laughs and ducks his head to avoid being hit by a young boy flying through the air on a broom. "You always interfere."
"I do not," I reply, more indignantly than intended, which only makes him laugh harder. "Plus, if I stay with you and Hermione, then Ginny'll think I don't want to stay with her-"
"But you do."
"Yeah," I admit. "But I mean, that's a bit forward, isn't it? 'Come and share a tent with me?'"
"They're like little houses, these tents," he says. "It's not like it comes across as an invitation to shag-" He grimaces and shakes his head, like a dog clearing water from its ears. "But all right, then, how about I share with Ginny?"
"You want me to stay with Hermione?" I ask, lowering my voice so I'm not overheard as we step into the queue for the water pump. Our plan for an early arrival may have helped initially, but the excitement of the impending match has everyone out of their tents already.
"Sure," Ron says with a little chuckle. "I'm pretty sure you're not going to try it on with her or anything."
"I just feel bad, 'cause it's your last weekend before she leaves, and I know you probably want to… you know. Be together."
"Yeah," he concedes. "I mean, it would be cool to add Iceland to the list of countries we've done it in-"
I let out a startled sputter of laughter. "You've been keeping a list?!"
"It's not that much of a list, just Australia and England so far," he says, cheeks reddening. "But it's all right. I should probably get used to being apart, shouldn't I?"
"But that's what I'm saying, take the opportunity while you've got it-"
"Or," he interrupts, struck by inspiration, "you and I can stay together and the girls can share, and my mum can rest easy."
It's this swift generosity, this selflessness, the utter Ron-ness of this suggestion that makes me feel even guiltier. I don't know how it's even possible to be the sort of friend he has been to me all these years, and what's more is that he doesn't think it's anything remarkable. He never thinks he's doing more than he should.
"Know what, it's fine," I decide as the queue shuffles forward. "Just stay with Hermione. Worse comes to worse, I'll sleep outside."
It all just feels very intimate, the idea of sharing a tent, even if we're on opposite sides of the room. It shows you all these little pieces of someone that you'd never ordinarily see: waking in the morning, drowsy and soft with sleep, and the sound of each other's breathing as you drift off. It's not that I don't want these things, but they seem like skipping a lot of steps we've still yet to take.
We fill up our pail at the water pump, along with a few canteens, and make our way back to our campsite. In our absence, Ginny and Hermione have unpacked our sizable bounty of food, the latter sorting through it, the former engrossed in a special World Cup edition of Quidditch Quarterly. I leave Ron and Hermione to breakfast preparations and drop down beside Ginny on the grass. The thought rolls through my mind that a month ago, I'd never have approached her like this.
"So who's your money on?" I ask, my stomach flipping when she looks up at me and smiles.
"Japan, I think," she replies, thoughtful. "Because look." She sets the magazine down on the ground in front of us, her finger pressed against a page comparing the Seekers from each team. "Look at Watanabe's average capture time, it's two hours faster than Bedoya."
Her long hair slips over one shoulder as she leans forward to read, hanging in a glossy curtain between us. I have to sit on my hand to resist the urge to tuck it behind her ear. More and more lately, it's starting to feel like the tension that exists between us has had a change in its nature. It's not awkwardness or resentment the way it was a month or two ago. It feels like magnetism, growing stronger the longer we resist it.
"Peru's got a better Keeper though," Ron pipes up from the opposite side of the fire, where he's wrapping strips of bacon around a skewer.
"As if you know anything about proper Keeping," Ginny shoots back, her grin broadening when Ron holds up two fingers in response.
"My two Quidditch Cups say differently - and how many have you won, exactly?"
Ginny cocks her head, squinting at him. "Also two?" she reminds him, incredulous. "The same exact ones you've won?"
Our eyes lock, and as we burst into laughter together, her head tilts just the slightest bit towards mine. And I find myself leaning toward her too, I almost can't help it - and even if I could, I don't think I want to. I want these little moments with her. I want as many of them as I can get.
"Oh, fine," Ron snaps back, though he's laughing a bit too. "Neither of you are getting breakfast now."
•••
The bacon actually turns out nice, if maybe a little charred and crispy, and following breakfast, we spend the morning in casual discussion of the odds for the upcoming match (Hermione contents herself with a book). For lunch, Ron attempts to make cheese toasties in the same fashion - speared onto skewers, held over the flame - but when the cheese instantly melts and falls in greasy globs into the kindling, he gives up and we eat them cold as we watch the waves. This minor setback doesn't stop him from attempting to roast the rest of the food, however, and by the time the afternoon rolls around, we've stuffed our bellies full with all of his experiments (marshmallows, chocolate biscuits, and crisps, just to name a few) and can hardly move. Despite the cold, none of us even considers seeking refuge inside one of the tents. Instead, we bury ourselves under massive hand-knitted blankets, courtesy of the Weasleys, and relish what little sun peeks through the clouds to warm us.
The day feels damn near perfect. One of those that drives out any worries or fears, any concern for the future or remembrance of the difficulties of the past, and you're content just to exist in the moment. A year ago, if someone had told me that I'd be sat around a campfire at the World Cup once more, the war won, with the people I care about most beside me, I'd have checked that individual into St. Mungo's for a mental evaluation. But we're here, safe and alive, our lives stretching out endlessly before us. More and more lately, I'm starting to wonder if that future of which I've dreamed will come to light after all.
It's so good that I don't want to disturb it, I don't want it to end. I'm almost disappointed when the evening rolls around and it's time to make our way to the stadium.
"Should we really leave the fire lit?" asks Hermione worriedly as we gather our things. "What if it spreads and burns down the tents?"
"The tents are fire-proof," Ron replies, a maroon wool blanket slung over his shoulder. "Mum and Dad made sure of that after… you know. The last World Cup."
"I still don't think we should leave it unattended. It's so windy here, and I know we've put charms up, but-"
"But then it'll be freezing by the time we get back-"
"Oh, I'm sorry, are we only allowed to light one fire per day?"
Ginny leans in close to me, and I get a noseful of her flowery-scented hair once again. "Let's just leave them," she mutters. "Let them fight it out all night."
I bite my lip to hold back laughter. "Not a bad idea," I reply in the same furtive tone.
Not that we'd ever actually abandon them, but I let myself imagine it: the match playing out before us, and Ginny and I alone in the Minister's box, snuggled together under a blanket to combat the cold. Is that what she's picturing too?
"We're leaving," Ginny declares, voice raised to be heard over the incessant bickering. "When you've decided what to do about the fire, you can join us."
Her hand closes around my wrist, and even through her glove and my jacket, the warmth permeates right on down to my skin. Happily, I let myself be dragged out of the bounds of our campsite. As Ginny surely expected, the fire is extinguished just seconds later by a jet of water from Hermione's wand, and she and Ron fall into step beside us.
"So Hermione won that one, huh?" remarks Ginny as we make our way down the dirt patch to the pitch.
"I still think it would have been fine," says Ron stubbornly. "But Harry's got the tickets, we had no choice."
"Just because you're not concerned with fire safety, Ron," Hermione begins, still haughty and annoyed, "doesn't mean the rest of us are oblivious…"
As the argument resumes, Ginny and I stride ahead of them. We're not alone on the path, not even close: hundreds of other match attendees have had the same idea as us, and it's loud and busy, and the collective excitement is so palpable that the air is practically buzzing. I've never liked crowds, but it's easy to ignore this one when I have Ginny beside me. Everything else feels inconsequential when I'm with her.
Unlike last time, England isn't the host country, so the box granted to its leadership (and, via Kingsley, to us) is significantly smaller than the one we sat in years ago, and only has seats to accommodate the four of us. Ginny leans her forearms on the railing once we're closed inside, taking in the pitch, the seemingly-infinite stands that rise up all around us, the enormous blackboard flashing advertisements for Sugarplum's Sweetshop and Twilfit and Tattings.
"One day," she says, looking up at me, cheeks pink, "I'm going to play here. Not here here, obviously," she clarifies. "Not Iceland, unless they host again. But… the World Cup. One day, I'll be out there."
"I don't doubt it," I say with utmost honesty.
"Have you ever thought about it? Playing professionally?"
I scrub my fingers through my hair, which, thanks to the weather, is more ridiculous than ever. "Maybe a bit. Last time we were here, I thought about what it'd be like, but I don't know if I was ever that good."
"You were good, though. I mean, you weren't the youngest Seeker in a century for no reason."
"They were desperate," I say with a shrug. "Plus, I think I missed more matches than I ever actually played in at school, what with Umbridge and detention and everything like that."
"You'd rather be an Auror anyway, wouldn't you?"
"Yeah," I say after a moment's consideration. "Yeah, I would."
Until I spoke the words aloud, I hadn't realized how true they really are. I can't imagine that I'll ever not want to be on the frontlines, in the thick of the action, in the heart of the fight. If my mission earlier this month taught me anything, it's that I've found the thing I'm meant to do.
"You, though," I add. "You're brilliant. You should definitely go for it."
She clasps her hands together in front of her. "I intend to."
If there are cameras here - and I'm certain there are, even if I haven't detected them yet - I'm sure they'll capture me gazing at her like a lovesick fool. It must be written all over my face, but I don't know how to stuff it down and pretend it's not there anymore. I don't know how to hide it or mask it. I am lost to her, and happily so.
Straightening up, she wraps her arms around herself, one leg bouncing rapidly. "Are you cold?" I ask immediately.
"Nah," she says with a little shake of her head. "Maybe a little bit, but it's fine."
"Oh, come on, of course you are. It's freezing out here."
I grab one of the blankets off the seats behind us, this one crafted from deep blue wool, and before I can think too much about it, or talk myself out of it, I'm draping it over her shoulders.
"All right, well…" Ginny grabs one corner of the blanket with the hand nearest to me and holds it up, sort of like a cape. "It's big enough for both of us, isn't it?"
I could protest. I could insist that I'm fine (I've endured worse, to be sure). A month ago, I might have done just that. I'd have let the uncertainty creep in and control me, and then later resigned myself to wondering what could have been.
But instead of all that, I duck down so that my shoulders align with hers, and she tosses the blanket over my back. We're so close now that our upper arms press tightly together, and I have no intention of ever moving.
"Better?" Her voice has gone low, almost raspy, but somehow it's not difficult to hear her over the cacophony of the crowds.
"Much better."
•••
"I mean, Peru would've won," Ron says, fitting a potato wedge onto a skewer. "Japan just caught the Snitch first, that's all."
From beside me, Ginny bursts out into astonished laughter. "Yeah, because that's how the sport works. You can't just say 'well, my side would've won if the other team hadn't'."
Shaking her head in amusement, she picks up her bottle of butterbeer and takes a long sip.
It's past midnight. The match was long, brutal, bloody at times, and our voices have all gone hoarse from shouting. Not yet ready for sleep, we'd relit the campfire upon our return to the tents, and then Ron had insisted on cooking up a late-night snack for everyone.
Somewhere, deep in my bones, I must actually be exhausted, but it's drowned out by the buzz and excitement of the match, of Ginny close beside me, of the unending crash of the ocean nearby and the murky blue sky above.
"I'm just saying, it wasn't a blowout or anything," Ron replies, though he's laughing a bit now too. "Up by a hundred and forty's a pretty decent lead."
"Yeah, until the other side catches the Snitch."
"Ahh, well," he shrugs, slowly rotating the skewer so all sides of the potato wedge are touched by the flame. "At least it wasn't Bulgaria, right?"
He looks over at Hermione with a cheeky grin, but she just smiles back, then inches closer so she can rest her head on his shoulder.
"So you're trying to make chips... over the fire?" I ask as the skin of the potato quickly blackens.
"I'm not trying, mate," replies Ron with false bravado. "I'm pretty sure I'm succeeding."
"Isn't the whole thing about chips that they're deep-fried, though?" I go on, well aware of Ginny fighting back laughter beside me. "I think you're just roasting them."
"Then they're roasted chips," Ron decides. "They'll still be good - oh, fuck-" He pulls the potato out of the fire and blows out the little burgeoning flame that's ignited on its tip, then discards it onto a plate. "We'll just call that one a tester."
Ginny rises and heads into one of the tents, and when she returns a moment later, it's with a massive sack of sweets clenched in one first. "I just think this'll be easier."
As she drops back down beside me, I throw the corner of the blanket over her lap so that it covers us both, and she tosses me a grateful smile.
"Brilliant," Ron agrees, tossing the skewer down onto the ground and reaching out a long arm for a licorice wand.
Steadily, we work through this treasure trove of sugar. Ginny and I share a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, tossing the questionable ones directly into the fire, and Ron has to grab a Peppermint Toad out of the air before it leaps to its own demise, and Hermione even indulges in an entire pack of wine gums without once mentioning the havoc they'll wreak on her dental health.
"I can't believe we leave for school tomorrow," says Ginny, carefully inspecting a dark purple jelly bean. "It's the thirty-first of August now, isn't it?"
"Oh, don't mention it," says Hermione with a glance up at Ron, who's very carefully stoic as he rotates a skewer - this one bearing a marshmallow - over the flame.
"So you're not excited?"
"I'm looking forward to being Head Girl," says Hermione, which makes Ron crack a smile, "but I've been away for an entire year. I'm probably going to be so behind."
"I don't think so, actually." Ginny takes a tentative nibble of her jelly bean, then cringes. "Oh, it's aubergine! I thought it might be grape - that's disgusting." She lobs it into the fire, then turns her attention back to Hermione. "You might actually be ahead of the rest of us."
"Well, I've been trying to brush up on some of it this summer, but there's so much to do-"
"I don't mean it like that," Ginny interrupts, shaking her head. "It's just that there wasn't a whole lot of actual learning going on last year."
That old familiar sensation of guilt settles itself firmly in my stomach. Ginny went through her own form of hell last year… and I wasn't there.
"It'll be different this year," says Hermione, quiet determination in her voice. "It'll have to be."
"And it'll go by quickly, right?" Ginny adds with a bit more optimism.
"God, I hope so," interjects Ron. "At least Christmas isn't that far off. Four months won't be too bad, will it?"
He doesn't sound terribly convinced, even as Hermione plants a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "It'll be over before we know it," she tells him.
As he turns to kiss her properly, Ginny sets about digging through the box of jelly beans and comes up with one that's a strange shade of pale green.
"Mint, maybe?" she says, holding it up so I can see.
"I don't know," I respond. "Try it."
She pops it in her mouth and chews, eyebrows quirking in consideration. "I think it's pea soup," she says, letting out a laugh. "I don't actually mind it. Is that weird?"
"Yes," I tell her honestly, and she laughs even harder as she seeks out another jelly bean.
She makes everything more fun. She makes everything brighter, everything warmer. It's like there's been something missing inside me, all these little cracks that I've been able to live with, not knowing how much more complete I would be once they were filled.
From across the fire, Ron lets out a long, exaggerated yawn and stretches his arms up over his head, then drops one down to hook it around Hermione's shoulders. "I think it's bedtime," he says, eyeing Hermione inquisitively. "What do you say?"
"Definitely." She nods, gathering the blanket they've been sharing into their arms, and gets to her feet.
The moment's upon us now; we can postpone the decision on sleeping arrangements no longer. I still don't want to impose on Ron and Hermione, or force them apart for one of their last nights together. I also don't want to give the impression that I'm trying to catapult whatever it is I have with Ginny to a place we're not ready to go. Sharing a blanket is one thing. Sharing a tent, alone, is quite another.
"Goodnight, you two," says Hermione with a faint smile. Taking Ron by the hand, she starts walking towards one of the tents.
"Wait, Hermione," Ginny calls to her. "I thought you and I would share tonight."
Undetectable to anyone but me, the very corners of her mouth twitch.
"Oh." Hermione's jaw opens and shuts soundlessly for a moment. "We will, I just, erm - I left something in this one."
"Right, of course. That makes sense."
Even in the low, wavering light of the fire, Hermione's face visibly reddens, and then she carries on tugging Ron into the tent with her.
"You're horrible," I tell Ginny, though my cheeks are starting to ache from smiling so much.
"It's just fun to make her squirm." Ginny reaches into the sack and pulls out a Chocolate Frog, her fingernails picking at the acetate wrapping. "It doesn't matter anyway, I'm not tired at all yet."
"Neither am I." I figure that I may as well just say it. It's going to come up at some point, and maybe I can smooth out any stickiness before it even arises. "If you want, y'know, you can have the other tent to yourself. I'll just share with them."
"Oh, I would never subject you to that," she says, her nose crinkling as she smiles. "I wonder if we should even bother with sleeping. The Portkey leaves pretty soon, too, doesn't it?"
It could come across as a very carefully crafted response, designed to subtly avoid addressing the topic at all. But with Ginny, I know it's not. More likely, she just hasn't overthought the implications of sharing a tent the way I have. Or maybe - and I'm scared to even let myself think it - she would actually like to share.
"Around seven, yeah. Ron and I have got training tomorrow," I recall suddenly. "I'm not sure he even remembers that."
Ginny peels a strip of acetate away from the cardboard Chocolate Frog box and starts to unwrap it. "Do you like it?"
"What, training?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, I actually do." The words come out stronger than I intended. "It's still a lot of school, but it feels more - I mean, you've got classes that feel pretty pointless, right?"
Ginny fixes me with a withering glare. "You mean like Arithmancy?"
Startled laughter erupts out of me. As vividly as if it's just happened, I recall a morning in the spring of my sixth year in which I'd attempted to help her revise for her OWL, even though it was a class I'd never taken, for the sole purpose of spending just a little more time with her. "Right! You did hate Arithmancy."
"Just be glad you never took it," Ginny says, her tone grave and serious. "It's what I get for listening to Hermione."
"And I told you, never trust what Hermione thinks is fun."
That morning, golden with warmth and sunlight in the recesses of my memory, had ended with us giving up on Arithmancy entirely and snogging instead. She's got to be thinking about it like I am. Whatever she feels for me now, there's no denying the unbridled happiness we'd felt back then, and she can't have just forgotten it.
"Auror training's the opposite of that," I tell her. "It all feels like we're actually working towards something, so it's not as bad having exams and things like that."
Ginny nods. "When are you fully qualified, then?"
"We have a final exam to take in December, and as long as we pass…"
"Then that's when the real danger starts."
"No worse than your chosen profession," I point out. "People took Bludgers to the face tonight."
She only manages the faintest smile. "Bludgers and dark wizards are a bit different, aren't they?"
"It's not the same as it was, though," I say, watching her pry open the cardboard box, one finger pressed to the top of the Chocolate Frog to keep it from leaping out. "Not since… you know. You don't need to be worried about Ron-"
"I'm not worried about Ron - oh, bloody hell," she says suddenly, holding a wriggling Chocolate Frog in one hand and the cardboard box in the other. "Look who's on the card."
I take it from her outstretched hand, expecting to see someone like Viktor Krum or Gilderoy Lockhart, but instead I just see my own scarred, bespectacled face blinking back at me.
"Oh, God," I groan, "let's just chuck this in the fire-"
I go to do just that, but Ginny grabs my hand to stop me. "Don't do that! It could be worth something someday!"
"Really doubt that-"
"Let's just see what it says." Ginny squares up her shoulders like she's about to make some sort of grand declaration. "'Harry James Potter'," she reads. "'Born thirty-first July, nineteen-eighty'."
"Accurate so far."
I scoot closer to her so that I can make out the small text beneath my photo.
Best known as the only wizard in recorded history to survive the Killing Curse and for his defeat of Dark wizard Lord Voldemort, Potter is currently in training to become an Auror with the British Ministry of Magic. A talented Seeker, Potter led Gryffindor to Quidditch Cup victory for three of his six years on the Hogwarts team.
"I - no, I didn't," I blurt out. "'Led Gryffindor to victory'? I didn't even play in two of them!" I nudge lightly Ginny in the side. "If anyone led the team to victory, it was you."
"Guess they don't fact-check," she replies, eyes still fixed on the card.
"You'd think they'd at least ask before they put you on a card."
"Yeah," says Ginny, setting the card down on the ground next to her, "but if they did that, then you could tell them no, couldn't you?"
"Guess so."
I'm not unaccustomed to being written about, or having my photo in places I didn't realize it would be, so it is absurd that a Chocolate Frog should set me on edge the way it has. But somehow, it's placed me on the same level as Albus Dumbledore or Merlin or Agrippa, and I cannot justify it. I didn't set out for fame or glory; I just did what I had to do.
"For the record, I'd have told them no. I wouldn't - I don't like this sort of thing."
"I know that."
"There's going to be pictures of us tomorrow in the paper," I go on. It is imperative to me that she understands this. "Anytime I do anything or go anywhere, it ends up as news. I wish it wouldn't, but-"
"I know," Ginny repeats, more firmly this time. "I know you haven't asked for any of it."
The Chocolate Frog has stopped struggling, so she snaps the leg off and offers it to me. I take it, and silence falls between us.
"Does it bother you?" I ask after a moment's quiet chewing. "That being around me means you'll be - well-"
"Judged and stared at?"
"Basically."
"If it did, I wouldn't be here." Her bottom lip between her teeth, she looks briefly up at the oddly light sky, then her eyes return to me. "Come to that, I wouldn't have invited you out for my birthday either."
It's just us out here. Ron and Hermione in their tent may as well be back in England, because it's Iike Ginny and I have carved out our own little corner of the world, right here on this cliff. And maybe it's the cold, or the low, wavering light of the fire, or the utter lack of sleep that erodes the last shred of my filter. Or maybe it's because I know, despite everything that's happened, that Ginny well and truly understands me. She will understand why I need to ask what I do.
"Why did you?"
There's always the chance that, in all her brutal honesty that I so admire, she'll tell me that it was out of pity, or out of deference to Ron and Hermione. There's definitely the chance that, with this one question, I'm taking this surreal, near-perfect night and smashing it into a thousand pieces.
But at least I'll know.
"Don't get me wrong," I add before she has a chance to even open her mouth. "It's not like I didn't want to be there. It just… I don't know. It really seemed like you hated me for a while there."
She shakes her head, eyes aimed at the dirt surrounding the fire. "I never hated you. I… I could never hate you. I was just angry."
"But you're not anymore."
"Well, it's like I said. I wouldn't be here if I was."
Ginny bites the head off her Chocolate Frog and chews. She doesn't seem upset or tense or even a little bit wary, just contemplative. I realize then that she wants me to take the lead. She's open to wherever this thing is going, she just wants me to take us there.
"So what changed?" I ask. "Because one day you were ready to bust down a door to get away from me, and the next you were - well, I mean, you don't just offer to name someone's new owl for no reason."
"I don't know," she replies, thoughtful. There is warmth, softness written on her face as she speaks. "Nothing huge, really. Not that I liked being trapped or anything, but it helped that we had to actually talk to each other and I couldn't avoid it any longer."
"Don't worry," I grin, "I won't tell Hermione."
She gives a genuine smile. "You'd better not."
We fall quiet for what feels like a very, very long time, with only the crashing of the waves and the crackling of the fire to break the silence. It doesn't feel comfortable like it did earlier. There's tension again, all of the unspoken things between us humming right below the surface. I don't know how I can tell, exactly, but I can just sense that she's about to speak, and all I need to do is wait.
I'm not used to inaction. Maybe that's why this past summer has been so uncomfortable for me, because I've never been one to sit back and wait. I've been frozen in a way. My future was cracked wide open, and I wasn't sure where to go or how to get there. And I am not a patient person, but for Ginny, I can wait forever. I can do whatever she needs, and right now, she just needs me to wait until she's ready.
When a gust of wind breaks through the charms around our campsite, Ginny shudders and pulls our shared blanket up a little further around her torso, folding her arms to keep it in place. She has every excuse in the world to escape to the comfort of the tent and leave me to my own devices. But clearly, she isn't ready for the night to end either.
"It was just a lot," she says eventually, staring into the very base of the fire, the part where it burns blue and white. "After everything, you know? My whole family was falling apart - Ron just up and left for Australia and that didn't exactly help - and you were back and nothing was the same as it used to be."
"And then I left again," I realize aloud, guilt intensifying. "Right when you and your family were going through all of that, I fucked off to live at Grimmauld Place."
"Yeah, but I wanted you to," she says, now looking me in the eye, with not one iota of shame and remorse. I've always admired this about her, this boldness, this unwillingness to apologize. "I used to think…" She shakes her head and starts again. "One of the things I always liked best about you was that I understood you. I never had to try to figure you out, you just made sense to me. But then you were gone for a whole year, and when you came back, I didn't know where you'd been or what you'd been doing, and so much had happened that I just felt like I didn't know you at all anymore."
"I wanted to tell you," I say, my voice sticking in my throat. "Before we left, but I mean, honestly, I didn't even know where I was going at the time. I barely had a plan to tell you about."
Her eyebrows slide up her forehead. "Yeah, so I've heard."
"Sometimes I don't know what I was thinking." I never planned on voicing this, but now's as good a time as any. "Splitting up with you, I mean. I was just trying to protect you, that was all I wanted to do, but it's not like they wouldn't still have gone after you."
"I understood why you'd done it, though, and… well, you still would have left, right?"
"Didn't have much of a choice."
"Right, so I think…" Her fingers fiddle with a loose thread on her blanket. "It probably would have been harder that way. If we hadn't split up."
"It was hard no matter what."
It occurs to me that I've had almost no practice with heart-to-heart conversations like this one. Navigating relationships isn't something I'm terribly good at, but right now, I know I can say anything to her.
"I used to… you know that map I've got? Of Hogwarts?"
"Yeah, I remember."
"I used to watch you on it last year. I'd find you, wherever you were - Charms class or the common room or wherever - and it's not like I thought you were having loads of fun with the Carrows running things, but…" I swallow, deeply aware of her eyes on me but unwilling to meet them. I'm not sure what I'll see if I do: distaste, or pity, perhaps. "It was the most of you I could have, I guess."
Ginny's voice comes out small and hoarse. "I didn't know you did that."
"I've never told anyone about it. Mostly because it's probably a bit creepy-"
"No, it isn't."
I do lift my eyes to meet hers, then, and as always, I'm struck by the intensity of her gaze.
"It'd have been nice to have one of them for you last year," she goes on, "but I suppose it would have had to be a map of all of Britain. Wouldn't really have worked."
"You'd have wanted to know?"
"Yeah, of course I did. I…" Spots of pink bloom on her cheeks. "I thought about you every single day. And that's why it helped, you know, our talk in the scullery, because I felt like… like I wasn't missing that huge piece of your life anymore."
"But I…" It dawns on me, clear as the sky above us, and I hate myself for not realizing it four months ago. "I'm missing that piece of yours."
This whole summer, there's been a chasm between us. At times it has seemed so wide and so deep that I could hardly see her on the other side. I've spent this whole time trying to build a bridge across it, hoping that I was saying and doing the right things and scared to make any misstep lest I destroy my progress. I hadn't once considered why it was there in the first place. I hadn't once considered that she might want me to close it.
"I know Neville told you about it," she replies, combing her fingers through her hair to keep the wind from whipping it into her face. "It just seemed like maybe… that was enough for you."
"That's Neville. It's not you. Look, I…" Whereas before, I could barely bring myself to look at her, now it's hard to tear my eyes away. "You don't owe me a thing. I just don't want you to think that I don't want to know or that I don't think it's important. I just thought, you know, I'm the one who chucked you, I'm the one who left, I just didn't think I had any right to know anything about you anymore. I reckoned if you wanted me to know, you'd have just told me."
"But to me, it seemed like you just wanted to skip past it or ignore it completely."
"I know. I did it all wrong, and… and I'm sorry."
It's the first time I've said those words to her since the end of the war. Turns out they've been lodged in my chest since May, and speaking them loosens a tightness I've long assumed will always be there. The words tumble out of my mouth of their own volition.
"I'm sorry about all of it. I'm sorry I came back and thought we could pick right back up where we left off, and I'm sorry about everything that's happened to you because of me. I'm just... I'm not an easy person to have in your life, and I get that, so-"
"I know," she replies, calm and sure. "I want you in it anyway."
I nod, trying to tamp down the uncontrollable swelling in my chest, because maybe she just means as friends. Maybe she knows that I'll always be in Ron's life and therefore, in hers. Maybe she knows that we can't pick up where we left off, because those people are gone now… but maybe she wants to start anew.
Silence falls again. Ginny hitches her blanket further up her body, draping it over her shoulders so that she's just a head poking out above an expanse of blue wool.
"If you're cold, you can go inside," I tell her after a shiver rushes over her. "I won't be offended."
She considers this for a moment, lips pursed. "Yeah, I might do, actually," she says. As she pushes the blanket off her lap and stands, cool air rushes in to mark her absence. "Aren't you coming?"
Like a complete fool, all I do is blink at her. "Erm - I - I'm fine-"
"Oh, Harry, don't be like that," she says impatiently. "What are you going to do, sleep out here in the cold?"
Actually, sleep isn't part of my plan at all. On the contrary, I anticipate sitting here by the dying fire and playing over every second of the day in my mind until it's time to leave, but I opt not to mention this to her.
"I said you could have the tent to yourself, it's all right." I tilt my head toward the other, occupied tent. "Ron and Hermione must be asleep by now, right?"
Ginny curls her lip in distaste. "Best not to risk it."
Oh. Oh, she wants me there. She's not just deigning to allow me in her presence, she actually wants me around. And far be it for me to deny her anything that she wants, so I rise as well, extinguish the fire with a wave of my wand, and follow Ginny into the tent.
Each magical tent I've been in has been set up a bit differently from the next. The Perkins' tent, a casualty of the war, had three rooms just like a little flat, but contained enough bunk beds to comfortably sleep eight people. The one that I used on my training mission was almost like a youth hostel, with rows of bunk beds and a large communal kitchen. And this one must be the smaller tent that Hermione and Ginny shared at the last World Cup, because its accommodations are quite meager. There's a door on one side that I assume leads to a bathroom, and in the main room, there's just a small armchair, an end table… and a double bed.
If Ginny is at all fazed by this - if her heart has begun thumping wildly in her chest the way mine is doing - she does not let on. Instead, she picks up her rucksack and rifles casually through it. "I'm going to change," she states as she pulls out a small stack of clothing. "Be right back."
I watch as she disappears through that small side door, and then snap into action. I already know she'll tease me if I try to act like I intend to sleep in my jeans, so suddenly - with the knowledge that any moment, Ginny might emerge and find me standing here in my pants - I'm shucking off my jeans and tugging on a pair of sleep trousers. Just as I'm peeling off my jumper, since I can sleep in my undershirt, she reappears in front of me in a long-sleeved thermal shirt and thick fleece trousers. Ever confident, she approaches me with a faint pink flush on the high points of her cheeks.
"Before you say anything stupid and noble about how you'll sleep on the floor, or - or in the bathtub, or something-"
"There's a bathtub in here?"
"You don't have to," she says. "We can just share the bed. If you want to, I mean," she adds quickly. "We can share."
She knows me well, because my instinct is to be noble. I want to tell her that it's fine, that I'm used to it - that I used to sleep in a cupboard, for Merlin's sake, so I can handle a night on the floor of a tent - and that the bed isn't that big, so she should have it all to herself. That I am used to going without.
But what if I drop all that? What if I don't have to be noble anymore? What if I can actually have what I want, for once in my short, strange life? For so long, I've had to sacrifice everything, and it's hard to envision anything other way.
Still, I meet her gaze with my own, and I nod, and let myself smile, and I say, "okay."
She steps past me to the bed, walking around to the far side of it and pulling back the corner of the duvet. It's old and threadbare, with some garish flowered pattern that Aunt Petunia would have adored, and the sheets rustle as she slips into them. I follow suit, slowly, hoping she doesn't notice the slight trembling of my hands, hoping she can't tell that my heart is lodged in my throat.
I used to fantasize about this sort of thing - actually, if I'm honest, I never stopped. For all the time that we spent last year, pressed together in back corridors or against dewy grass, we never shared a bed once. Everything was so new, it would have been too soon, and I imagine that had it happened, it would have made it damn near impossible to leave her. But I've thought about it, almost non-stop for the past two years, and now it's here. And as much as adrenaline is gushing through my veins at the closeness, at the soft intimacy of it, it also feels right. It's another piece that I didn't know was missing, falling right into place.
Ginny turns over on her side to face me, and I do the same. It's just the two of us, lying there in the darkness, our noses mere inches apart. A few small windows in the canvas of the tent allow the moon to shine in on us, just enough to make out her features. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I think about doing it: just leaning in and kissing her. It wouldn't take much. But she's on the verge of something, I can feel it, and if I interrupt her now - even though every bone in my body is screaming at me to do it - I don't know if we'll ever get it back.
So I wait. The waves and the wind are muffled by the canvas of the tent, and I can hear as she draws a deep breath, then releases it through her nose. As she swallows, heavily, like she's steeling herself.
"I could… I could talk about it now." Her voice is soft, barely a breath. "Unless you had any plans of going to sleep tonight."
"Oh, no," I say quickly. "No, I don't ever need to sleep again."
"I don't know if it'll be as riveting as your tale-"
"I don't care. Whatever you want to tell me, I want to hear it - and if you don't want to, you don't have to-"
"I do want to."
Ginny starts with the things I already knew - Luna being dragged off the train, her detention for trying to steal the sword of Gryffindor, Unforgivable Curse practice on first-years - as though she's easing me into the narrative. Or perhaps easing herself into it. I know what it must take for her to open up like this, to make herself vulnerable, particularly as I'm the person who hurt her. But the longer she speaks, the more intense the relief is as it hits both of us. There was no way to talk around this, or shove it into the past until we'd gotten enough distance from it. The only way out was through.
The conversation drifts, eventually, to lighter and happier things. The words flow easily between us, just like they always have. It's hard to believe that just weeks ago, I was at a complete loss for what to say to her.
As the sky begins to lighten, sometime around four in the morning, Ginny's eyelids drift closed in a suspiciously long blink. Then another, and another, until her features relax into sleep, her soft lips just barely parted. I don't necessarily want to be the bloke watching the object of his affection sleep - we aren't properly together so it borders on obsessive - but I've never seen her quite like this. All her walls are down. To see her content and at peace, after everything she's just shared… it brings me peace too.
I regain consciousness to the sensation of a small finger poking me in the shoulder, and open my eyes to see Ginny's freckled face smirking at me. Judging by the light streaming in through the timeworn canvas, the sun has well and truly risen now.
Though I hadn't meant to fall asleep, I am very, very happy to be waking up beside her.
"It's late, isn't it?"
My words barely croak out of my throat, making the corner of her mouth tilt up in amusement.
"Only just gone six," she says. "But I think Ron and Hermione are awake already."
Blinking sleep from my eyes, I push myself up to a sitting position. "We'd better get out there, then."
"Probably."
She sounds just as reluctant as I feel.
After taking turns changing clothes in the bathroom (which, although tiny, does contain a clawfoot tub), we head out to the campsite. Ron and Hermione, looking exhausted and disheveled, have rekindled the fire, and an iron tea kettle sits in the middle of the flame.
"Well, well, well," says Ron, words dripping with mock disapproval. "Look what the cat's dragged in. Thought you'd make us miss the Portkey."
"You could have left without us," says Ginny brightly as she drops down to the ground and holds her hands out over the burgeoning fire. "We'd have been all right."
As Ron sets about fixing two more cups of tea, Hermione catches my eye and flashes me a very small, subtle thumbs-up. I can't even bring myself to be annoyed with her incessant fixation on my non-relationship, because I actually agree with her: this has been good. Really, really good.
There's only time for a quick breakfast of tea and toast (which gives a delighted Ron one last chance to cook over the fire) before we have to begin packing up our campsite. Before long, I'm taking one last look at Iceland, at the cliffs and the waves and the massive Quidditch pitch which now stands empty, the burnt-out Hoover yanks us violently back to the basement kitchen of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.
Ron looks at his watch, decides he has time for a twenty-minute kip before we absolutely have to leave for the Ministry, and tugs Hermione up the stairs without further ado. Ginny looks at the fireplace, then at me, eyes still as bright and warm as they were in Iceland. Despite having slept a grand total of six hours in two days, I feel utterly energized just being with her.
"So," she begins. "About your owl."
I grin. "I don't suppose he has a name yet, has he?"
"Not yet," she says sheepishly. "But I think it would help if I met him, is he here?"
"Yeah, unless he's still out hunting, he should be around. We can check."
At Ginny's eager nod, I start towards the stairs. As has become his habit over the past thirty-one days that I've owned him, my owl is likely in my bedroom, sleeping inside his cage. Which, of course, means that Ginny is soon to be in my bedroom, and my stomach gives a little leap of excitement at the thought. All the intimate, personal things that have transpired this weekend could never have happened earlier this summer. It feels like everything has changed.
Of course, then I turn the doorknob. I'm not exactly used to visitors, and my room is messy in that way only an unsupervised teenager can achieve. Clothes lie strewn about the floor, the duvet is a rumpled pile in the center of the bed, and old magazines sit stacked on the bedside table next to dirty pint glasses.
"Sorry," I say, cheeks burning as we step inside. "I wasn't really - well-"
"I've got lots of brothers," Ginny reminds me. "It's not actually that bad - oh!" In the far corner, the owl is perched on the bar in his cage, his beak working at the bony remnants of what I assume was once a mouse. "Oh, he's little!"
"He's still rather young," I say. "He'll grow."
"Don't worry, I'm not going to call him Pigwidgeon Junior or anything," she says with a smile. "Have you got any treats for him?"
I find the box of Owl Treats wedged between two training textbooks and pass them to her. After unhooking the door to the cage, Ginny lets the owl hop out onto her arm and strokes a hand over his fuzzy little feathers.
"Hey, mate," she says gently as his sharp yellow beak plucks a treat from her palm. "Don't worry, I'll pick a good name for you. We won't let Ron call you Agamemnon, will we?"
"You know, I reckon you're right," I say as I watch them. "You've got to get to know him a little better before you can pick the right name for him. So…" As she looks over at me, I gather my courage to say what I'm about to say. "I was thinking maybe it would help if I sent him up to Hogwarts every so often, so you could see him. If that's all right with you."
Slowly, she nods. That blazing look, the one I've always loved, the one I'd thought of in what were meant to be my last moments, is back in her eyes. "Yes," she says. "You absolutely should. The more the better."
I am smiling like an idiot at her and I don't even care. "Brilliant."
Ginny tucks one last treat into the owl's beak and then lets him hop from her arm back into his cage. "I really should get home soon," she says with more than a little remorse in her voice. "Mum'll start to worry, and I've still got a lot of packing to do."
"Yeah, all right. I need to leave for training in a few minutes anyway."
"Okay." Stepping forward, Ginny wraps her arms around my neck, and automatically I hug her tightly back, cradling her small waist against my own. The moments march past, neither of us keen to separate. "Thanks for this weekend," she says quietly. "I had a lot of fun with you."
"I did too."
She pulls back, leaving warmth burning where our bodies once touched. "Will I see you at the station tomorrow?"
"Yes," I say instantly. My hands are still on her waist; I don't want to let go. "Yes, I'll be there."