True to her word, Ginny now refuses to leave Harry's bed. Although Harry's nightmares continue, she ignores every pleading, begging moment in which Harry asks her to stay away. Most nights he puts up silencing spells so that he doesn't wake her. This works often, but not enough. Between Harry's waking to check the map and his shuddering, whimpering terrors, Ginny is losing a lot of sleep. At first, she takes naps here and there during the day when Harry is busy elsewhere. However, when he's home all day, that becomes more difficult to manage.
"Go back to sleep, Harry," Ginny mumbles.
"I'll be done in a minute, Ginny. Sorry about the light." He dims the Lumos and walks over to the corner, scanning the map quickly. His usual sigh of relief is short-lived when Ginny's shadow falls over him.
"Put the bloody map away and come back to bed. I don't understand why you keep looking at that thing."
He shies from her. "You wouldn't understand."
"I'm your girlfriend, Harry," she says simply. "Explain it to me."
He sighs. "We've been over this, Gin. I've tried."
"Try again." Her hands are on her hips now. The large quidditch shirt she wears gapes at the neck and falls open across one shoulder. She's in just her knickers. He stares at her, all anger and fire. His head falls, one hand squeezing the back of his neck as he looks at the map in his hands.
"I-I need to know. I need to know for sure that he's not there." His voice gets smaller, less steady. "Gin, I need to know that he's gone." By this point, Harry is looking up at her, water in the depths of his eyes swirling like the bank of a mossy river.
"He's dead, Harry. You've quite killed him." He snorts. A tear falls down his cheek. She leans forward, tilts his head up and slips her tongue in his unsuspecting mouth; he pushes her away from him and her eyes narrow.
"Is that map more important than me, Harry?" He looks taken aback.
"Why would you ask that?" She goes to grab for it, but he moves too quickly.
"You hold on to that thing like it's the most precious bit in your world. I should be a trifle more important than a bloody piece of parchment, Harry Potter!" She rails at him now, shoving with both palms at his chest. He staggers, but catches his footing.
"What the hell, Ginny?"
"I've tried, Harry. I'm still trying," she insists. "But you're still stuck in the damned war!"
"That's not fair and you bloody well know it!"
"Why the hell not, Harry?" She's taken the map and tossed it aside. Another shove. He stands, chin up.
"Because I love you, you daft bint, and that isn't about me being stuck in the war!" Harry is leaning over her, roaring the words with spittle flying. His face is red and rage fuels his actions.
He grabs her by the arms and walks them both toward the bed. Her eyes flutter with each step they take. When her knees hit the edge, he hefts upward and tosses her. Her legs tangle for a minute before she's able to straighten everything out. She watches warily as he stalks toward her. Harry pauses for only a moment—just long enough to banish her clothes, then his own. As he climbs atop the mattress, she scoots back, glaring at him.
The heat in her eyes could scald a phoenix if it wasn't careful. Harry hitches her leg up around his hip, not caring that she isn't ready. Not caring that he has no lubrication. All he cares about is the fact that Ginny is his and she's questioning that. He reaches down to take himself in hand, shoving forward when the tip of him finds her entrance.
Beneath him, Ginny arches upward. She is wet, but not ready. He slides against her and the tension in her body drives him. Rather than slow, open-mouthed kisses against her skin, Harry devours her. He bites and scrapes, sweat rolling across the both of them. She writhes beneath him, moaning each time he reaches the end of her and tries to go just a bit farther. Her nails drag down his back and bring blood to the surface. He's a mess of purple and red by the time he feels it coming. He is too far gone to care that she's not gotten much out of it. When it hits him, he bellows his claim to the morning and falls atop her like a stag in rut. Harry eventually rolls off to the side, throwing an arm across his eyes.
He hears her whisper, more to the shadows than to him, "You don't know what love is, Harry Potter." The words sting, anyway.
"He's not there, he's not there. You know he's not there." Harry continues to mumble to himself as he rolls his legs out of bed, grab the Marauder's map and walks into the bathroom. His wand tip lights in a soft Lumos. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." The words from Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs whirl away and ink spreads out to show the layout of Hogwarts. Soft green eyes scan incessantly. "Not there. Not there." He uses the words as a mantra, trying to convince himself that he will never see it there again.
Just as his eyes glaze over the swiftly-moving form of Minerva McGonagall, Harry feels a sharp tug at his hair and the map is ripped from him. He spins around in the hold, his wand out and a stinging hex fires off before he has the chance to think who could be in the room with him.
"What the hell, Harry? That fucking hurt, you prat!" The voice is Ginny's and his face falls as she lets him go. He crouches low to the floor, trying to make some sense of what's just happened.
"Ginny?"
"Yes," she bristles. "It's me, you wanker."
"Ginny? Why did you take the map?" Her face flickers with the sickly glow of candles reflecting off freckles and hair that hasn't been washed in days.
"I took it because you're out of bed. Our bed. Again. It's one in the bloody morning and you've woken me up. Again." He cocks his head to the side, waiting for more. This is nothing new. "When is this going to stop, Harry? Are you ever going to stop looking at this fucking map? He's dead. DEAD, Harry!" She's shouting now, screaming. "You killed him, so you should bloody well know the bastard died." He pales, sinking lower. All he wants is the map back and his fingers twitch to get it. The fingers of his left hand begin tapping against the inside of his right arm. The longer he stares up at her, the harder it becomes. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. At first, it follows the unearthly rhythm of his heart. Then it becomes chaotic and he just starts tapping wildly. He makes to reach for the map and Ginny grins—a wild smile as her lips pull back in a snarl.
"Do you want this, Harry?" she taunts. He pauses, then nods. "Too fucking bad. You need to get over it. Get over yourself. We've got better things to do with our lives." She holds it over the sink, points her wand at the parchment, and whispers, "Incendio." As the parchment begins to burn, Harry stares in disbelief. Flames lick up the sides, engulfing Minerva as she rounds the corner to the Transfiguration classroom and then she is gone. He can do nothing but sob as Ginny stares at him, orange flickers giving purchase to the demons lurking beneath her eyes.
"I can't be here right now," is all Harry manages to get out before he disapparates, leaving a flustered Ginny Weasley in his wake.
When he lands, he skids several feet from the rebuff of wards. He comes to a stop with his face in the dew. Replacing his glasses, which are now a foot away, Harry looks up to see gnarled trees angling down, beckoning him toward their welcoming arms. He stands, shaking himself free from the ground and his momentary disorientation. Aiming for Hogwarts is always silly business when the wards refuse direct apparition. He knows better than to try. He just doesn't know precisely where they've spit him out.
What he does know is that the forest is not a place to be without one's cloak. As the sun sets, Harry's body turns against him. He does not trust any of the mushrooms or berries in a place such as this, so he doesn't eat anything. There hasn't been a running source of water since he's found himself here and his throat is burning more with each step.
The sound of hooves and a grating screech come from his left. He stops to listen, trying to place the familiar noise. "Luna?" He follows the sound slowly, coming to a clearing where several adult thestrals laze about. There are a couple of foals jumping and frolicking- their screeching cries are the sounds he heard. He remembers the first time he'd seen a thestral with the young Luna Lovegood. Looking down at his tapping fingers, he regrets the memory. Despite his efforts, Luna was caught in the crossfire after the battle, when a rogue Death Eater broke through the battered wards of Hogwarts and slaughtered several of the Order before splinching himself trying to flee. Neville was devastated as he lay there with Luna cradled in his arms.
Harry squints his eyes, tapping rapidly and trying to breathe through the memories. That's when he feels it—a soft, slimy glob of something on his wand hand. Immediately, his wand is out, eyes wide. To his surprise, there is a spindly colt standing before him, its tongue lapping at a tear that had fallen there. Harry laughs despite himself. He reaches out to touch the creature, but is nipped in return. He huffs, but watches as the little one tries to search his pockets.
"Ahh, so you knew her, then. I don't have any livers, I'm afraid." When it doesn't find anything, it goes trotting back to the herd where it immediately snaps at another young thestral.
Harry turns away in search of water. There isn't anything for him here. He's sure that if he watches them long enough, they might lead him to some, but it could take too long and they might fly. He can't levitate long enough to reach the fruit in the trees, let alone follow a herd of thestrals over what could end up being kilometers.
The moon is high and bright when he stops for the evening, weary and exhausted. He finds a tree with roots that grow up and out of the ground, large enough that he fits snugly beneath them. Once there, he curls up and tries to sleep. It doesn't last long. The constant calls and movement of the forest creatures keep him awake. For hours, he lays there listening to them; it is a comforting sort of symphony.
As the sun rises and puts the moon to rest, Harry crawls out and stretches. His lips are too dry. They crack and bleed in one spot. He tries to speak, but can't, so he feels trudging forward is his only option. The farther in he moves, the less familiar any of the forest looks. He continues like this for what feels like weeks, more delirious as time passes. His legs drop out from beneath him and, of less sound mind than when he'd come, he tries to crawl forward. At one point, he tries to apparate. Thankfully, he does not splinch himself, but instead moves backward an hour's walk without knowing anything of it.
Harry Potter is in the Forbidden Forest for two days, three hours, and forty-two minutes before Firenze finds him. The centaur comes across the body thinking that he's found a Death Eater who's crawled out of the shadows and died. Instead, he sees the face of someone he knows quite well. With the reluctant help of several centaurs Firenze hunts with, he makes a litter and they roll the unconscious Harry onto it. Together, they carry him to the edge of the forest. Firenze, alone, carefully walks out and toward the hut of Hogwarts' groundskeeper, Hagrid.
"I'll jes' be a minute," comes the voice from inside the hut. As the door swings open, Hagrid's face registers concern to see Firenze. He quickly ducks through the doorway, grabbing his cloak, and steps out to meet him. "Well hello, Firenze. Didn't think I'd be seein' you anytime soon."
"Hello, Hagrid." The centaur dips his head in greeting. "Harry Potter was found in the forest. He should not have been wandering alone." Hagrid's face turns purple at the announcement.
"Well where is 'e? Is 'e okay? Is 'e hurt? Blimey, if tha' boy's gon' and hurt 'imself, I'll jes' have to—"
"Hagrid. The boy is alive. I cannot say that he is well. He is at the edge of the forest waiting for you. Be sure that he does not come back. The forest is not as forgiving as it once was."
"Not tha' it's ever been, mind ye." Firenze tilts his head again at this and strides past Harry's limp body into the fog of the morning.
"Harry? Harry, ye daft boy. Are yeh alrigh'? You can't do this to me again." His eyes water a bit as he lifts the smaller man in his arms, overwhelmed with memories of the last time he'd done so.