XVI. A Game of Chess
(Harry)
He came back to life and won the war for her, for the possibility of them.
But after the funerals and seeing Ron and Hermione off to Australia, Harry got caught up in the new administration, the Auror Academy, meetings with solicitors, Curse Breakers, and goblins. There was paperwork to be filled out, decisions to be made, interviews and conferences to be had. He was busy…
It was a good excuse, anyway, when bumping into Bill several weeks later.
"Everyone's been asking for you."
Harry could not meet Bill's gaze. "I'll try to stop by the Burrow soon."
"Soon" did not happen. Harry's stomach churned anytime he thought about facing the Weasleys, so he put it off some more; letters from Arthur and Molly sat on his desk, opened but unanswered, Ron's frown deepened anytime they spoke on the two-way mirrors about the work Harry had been doing and how he'd not found time yet to set it aside. And there was Ginny, who Harry still missed and wanted to see her more than anything in the entire world, yet nothing haunted him more than the sound of her sobs as they laid Fred to rest…
It was George who ended up pulling Harry's head out of his arse, cornering him outside the loos nearest the Department of Magical Law Enforcement after lunch on a sunny Tuesday afternoon.
"No one blames you." George gripped Harry's shoulders hard. "I can't believe you made me leave the bloody house for this."
The guilt was heavy, and Harry easily hung his head with it. "I'm sorry… for everything. I–"
"Don't." George's voice wavered slightly. "I'm not losing another brother, alright? Alright?"
George gave him a firm shake, and Harry nodded, swallowing hard as he faced him, the very image of Fred minus an ear.
"I'll see you on Sunday."
A few days later, Harry found himself in the Burrow's crowded kitchen, kissed by Molly and Fleur, hugged roughly by Arthur, patted on the back by several Order members sprinkled in amongst the redheaded family. It was remarkably hot in the little room, but this did not faze him: finally, finally, he took up the same space as Ginny.
She was standing beside Angelina Johnson at the stove, a vision in sunflower yellow. He tried to greet her after shaking Percy's hand, his breath trapped in his throat from anticipation, but she skirted around him as he approached, tucking a basket of bread rolls in her arms as she went and refusing to make eye contact.
A cold, dreadful feeling settled in the pit of Harry's stomach. Ginny actively avoided him, taking measured steps in the opposite direction any time he moved closer and sitting far away from him once the meal was served. Harry thought wildly about chess and what moves he could make to force her hand, but she was a queen with every piece at her disposal, and he was absolute shit at this game.
Dinner was a long affair and the drinks served thereafter even longer. Everything inside him was crashing, burning with the need to get Ginny alone. If he could not manage to make them okay by the end of the evening, he was going to lose his mind. It felt very much like he'd lost it already (though he was sure that was partly due to the three firewhiskeys he'd drowned in quick succession).
Ginny began the washing up as the last of the Weasleys guests left, the hills around the property a dark, shadow-blue. Head buzzy and brazen, Harry took a chance to execute a brilliant play.
"I can take that for you if you've finished?"
With a knowing look, Fleur passed him the wine glass she had been sipping from. "Merci, 'Arry. That ees very kind of you."
He could feel the eyes of every Weasley boring into his back as he pushed open the kitchen door. It creaked loudly, then banged shut behind him, and Ginny glanced at him over her shoulder, elbows deep in sudsy water. When she saw it was him, she turned back to the dishes, lips pressed in a thin line.
He did not speak until he stood beside her.
"You're angry with me," he said quietly, carefully setting Fleur's cup by the sink.
"I thought we were friends."
If his heart could crumble, it would have done then. He was ashes, he was dust, pulverized into fine powder with five pointed, accusatory words.
"We are friends," he said.
"Well, you're shit at it."
Her words were biting, shoulders tense. Harry wanted to reach for her hand, but she was scrubbing viciously at a knife and thought it prudent not to.
"I'm sorry. I've been busy–"
Ginny scoffed.
"–and I didn't want to bother you."
Plunk. The knife plunged into the dirty water, tip down and flashing.
"Bother me? Bother me?"
Her voice rose steadily, and Harry became keenly aware that the sitting room had suddenly gone quiet.
"After everything that's happened, I thought you might've wanted to be left alone," he scrambled to explain.
"How?" she demanded, eyes blazing, voice cracking. "How would you know what I wanted without asking?"
She was near tears, and he realized his blunder like a beater's bat to the head: Ginny needed him, probably as much as he needed her.
"I'll come 'round," he said softly, placatingly, "every night if you want me."
His heart was in his throat. Merlin, if she rejected him now, he'd never be able to speak to her again.
Ginny swiped at her eyes with her bicep, sniffed hard, and went back to the washing.
"You're such an arse," she said, but her tone had evened out.
"Is that a yes, then?"
A breath of laughter escaped her, and Harry was soaring.
"Bugger off and give me a hand, would you?"
XVII. Come Again?
(Harry)
Through letters and visits to the Burrow, Harry slowly reconnected with Ginny.
He wrote to her during his lunch breaks, usually something quick about how training was going or how horrible the paperwork was, always informing her on whether he'd make it for dinner or not. She wrote him back every time, often complaining of the noisy rooster her father had acquired or the state of the twigs on her broom, closing her letters with missing you, or love; it always felt like he'd struck gold upon reading those words.
When he did manage to see her in person, they went on long walks, flew around the paddock, and discussed the past year at length. They were resting beneath the grand oak tree by the murky frog pond when he told her about Horcruxes. Harry would never forget the look of terror that stole across her face.
"His soul was in the diary?"
He took her hand, cold despite the summer heat, and squeezed it gently.
"The strongest bit of it," he confirmed, "and you fought it off at eleven years old."
It was as June bled into July that Ron and Hermione returned from Australia, Mr. and Mrs. Granger safe and sound and home again. They began moving into Grimmauld Place with him just days later, and he allotted them the entire second floor to do with what they pleased.
"It's too much," Hermione had said at once.
Ron had looked like he was ready to argue, too.
"Listen," Harry had said, "who else is going to fill up this miserable house?"
One morning, Harry found Ginny alone in the basement kitchen, her hair tied up in a tight ponytail as she feasted upon a spread of Kreacher's greatest breakfast staples. There were comically long swaths of wallpaper samples trailing from her purse on the floor.
She looked up, smiled at him, and sent his stomach aflutter.
"Hello," she said. "Are you planning on showing me up to your room for a quickie?"
A wave of heat had Harry falling into his chair. He must be in bed, still asleep. This was leading to the best kind of dream.
"A what?"
"A quick sec. What did you think I said?"
He stared into her sparkling eyes, much too gobsmacked to respond.
"Hermione asked me for help redecorating," Ginny explained. "I thought you might want an update to your room, too."
Harry reached for the toast, shifting in his chair just so in hopes of relieving the unexpected spring of pressure. He took a deep breath, a second to collect himself; this game he could play.
"That sounds great," he answered casually. "You can come in my bedroom anytime."
Ron and Hermione stepped into the kitchen seconds later to find Ginny red-faced and mopping up her overturned pumpkin juice.
XVIII. A Birthday Surprise
(Harry)
Harry worked late into the night on his eighteenth birthday, catching Ron up on several case files and making an arrest with Neville in Knockturn Alley. It was pouring rain, pitch black out, too, when he finally trudged home and proceeded to get pissed, his best friends dutifully at his side.
At a quarter to midnight, someone hammered at the front door. Harry, Ron, and Hermione raced clumsily down the stairs just as Kreacher was letting in Ginny, soaked through and sobbing.
Ron got to her first, face as pale as when he'd gotten splinched nearly a year ago. Harry held himself back, just barely.
"Bloody hell! What happened, Ginny? What's wrong?"
He thought for a moment that Ron was shaking her, but Ginny was trembling all on her own. Hermione clenched her fingers around Harry's forearm, keeping him in place, grounded. Everything inside of him fought against it.
"M-Mum," Ginny said, hands gripping her mangled broomstick. "Mum just–"
Icy dread dripped down Harry's spine.
"Mum what, Ginny? Mum just what?"
Now Ron really was shaking her. In a flurry of movement, Hermione pulled him away and Harry took his place, wrenching Ginny's hands from her broom and letting it clatter aside. Her fingers were freezing as he clasped them with his own.
"She said- she said a career in Quidditch was unrealistic. She said she was shipping me off to Hogwarts come September first, to take the NEWTs, to get a real job." She looked up at Harry, eyes dark and pleading. "I can't, I won't. Will you let me stay here?"
Harry's ears rang in the sudden silence, which was soon cut with Ron's long-suffering groan.
"You've got to be shitting me."
They split up: Ron stumbled down to the basement kitchen to deal with his parents (Molly's outraged yelling could be heard within seconds of him calling through the Floo), Hermione led Ginny to her bedroom for dry clothes, and Harry found himself checking the state of the spare bedroom on the first floor.
The Death Eaters had done a number on Grimmauld Place last year. They'd ripped up the floorboards and carpeting for clues on Harry's whereabouts, defiled the portraits (quite warranted, in Harry's opinion), and cursed the thresholds with triggers and dark magic to notify them of his presence were he ever to return, to jinx him, incapacitate him.
Kreacher had been furious when he'd seen what Voldemort's followers had done to The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. With the house elf on Harry's side, as well as a number of Curse Breaker friends of Bill's, Number 12 had been made safe, evil and wickedness banished for good, and restored to its former, early 20th century glory. The marble floors on the ground floor gleamed, white paint had been administered to every wall with well-placed spells. Its personality had been completely erased– a good thing, too, as the curtains no longer tried to strangle anyone who walked past.
The guest room had been given the same treatment as the rest of the house: scrubbed clean, white walls, fresh linens. It was an average size, single beds pushed together to make a double, a nightstand on each side.
The small table lamp flickered on with a wave of his wand and flooded the room in soft light. It would do for Ginny, for now.
"This one mine?"
She was in the doorway, the very tips of her red hair still wet, wearing a white top and old pajama shorts, the former see-through and the latter loose and barely clinging to her waist.
"Yeah," he said, unsure if his mouth was dry from drink or her.
She could take whatever room she wanted, frankly, anything really. He'd give it to her all.
"Thank you for letting me stay." She stepped up to him, half an arm's length away. "I'm sorry I ruined your night."
"You could never ruin my night," said Harry reaching for her hands, thankfully warm now. "And you can stay forever, if you want."
He'd had too much firewhiskey, and he was being an absolute cad, his voice deep and slurry, his eyes dipping down to her chest. But Ginny quirked a brow at him in return, unperturbed.
"How much have you had to drink?"
"Too much. Sorry."
"Don't apologize," said Ginny, looking down at their conjoined hands. "You're kind of perfect."
Harry desperately wanted to tilt her chin up, look into her warm brown eyes, and kiss her, but she was a runaway, and he was drunk, and what if she regretted the moment in the light of day?
"Just kind of?" he asked teasingly.
She grinned up at him, eyes crinkled at the corners, and his stomach did a backflip.
"No one's perfect, but I think you're as close as it gets."
The urge was too great. He bowed his head to press his mouth to the corner of hers, just for a second, like she'd done to him more than a year ago. It took all his strength to wrench himself away, leaving Ginny wide-eyed, her pink lips parted in surprise.
"Goodnight," he said roughly, squeezing her hands once before pulling away. "Get some rest."
"Goodnight," she breathed, "and happy birthday."
Happy birthday, indeed.