Harry, she pleads, later, when everything has been said, think. How can this be true? How can I be a prophet? I've never seen more than tea-leaves in the bottom of my cup…I don't even remember my dreams. I…
He isn't listening. It's the best thing to do considering the situation. He doesn't want to prolong this more than is necessary; he needs to do the right thing. Ginny. His voice is scratchy, like the bark against her back when they'd kissed, roughly, with juvenile desperation. It makes her shiver. I believe Dumbledore.
We can get through this though, can't we? Together we can… Her beautiful brown eyes fill with tears as she realises she is asking him for more than he can do. For more than what he is willing to give up. Please Harry. Please. Dumbledore isn't always right. You need me, you need love to win, remember? Isn't that what he's always said and now… Her voice is high-pitched and anguished, he knows he is breaking her heart but it has to be done.
Lifting a defiant jaw and unable to look her in the eyes he says: We can't afford to take the risk. It has to be done. And finally. I'm the Boy Who Lived.
And nothing's more important than that, is it? She hisses, cheeks on fire as she holds her tears. He has the nerve to move his head. Her scowl deepens. Her earlier look of adoration fades.
—Too fast.
It doesn't happen like that; suddenly, yes, but not like that. Things happen before…
Her summer at the Burrow is hot and lively. It is a time of sundresses, of jumping into the pond fully-clothed, of wet fabric clinging to wetter skin, of red cheeks and an ache somewhere much lower and much more secret than her stomach when she realises he is watching her.
The summer after her fifth year at Hogwarts is a summer of discovery.
She gives them a mischievous smile. We're only going to be young once, she coaxes softly. And even if he could talk with her bare knee pressed gently against his own, he knows he wouldn't form a coherent sentence.
Two bottles of Firewhiskey and four glasses sit in the middle of a circle in the fields just beyond the Burrow. Beside her is Ron, with slightly flushed cheeks and a gleam in his blue eyes she has loved since she was a child. Next is Hermione, who likes to pretend she never breaks the rules unless it's for the good of Wizard-kind, looking furious, lips pursed like there is something sour in her mouth. And him, black hair in green eyes which give him away: he's dying to do…something.
Though Hermione pretends to take the moral high-ground and reels off reason after reason why they shouldn't do it, no one misses the glimmer of curiosity at the back of her dark eyes. They all want to try it, to experience, to act like typical teenagers instead of the little adults they have been since the age of eleven.
And when the dark liquid hits their throats, it burns and makes them splutter, but after that is warmth not different from a hug, only fiercer.
It makes them flush and giggle and do it again.
He loses four chess games in a row without breaking a sweat. He drops the Quaffle, misses every goal, and almost falls from his broom. He jumps when Ron says his name.
There's only one girl he's interested in, but he hides the thought somewhere where Ron will never find it. He has seen his friend hit Malfoy on more than one occasion for lesser crimes; he doesn't want that same fist in his face.
She is dripping wet and grinning. Merlin, stop.
The best thing about summer is the pond… Is running through the fields beyond the Burrow, feeling the wind whipping through her hair, which is long and loose and red like fire… Is the warmth on her skin, the salty taste as she runs her tongue over her lips, dropping into the shade of a leafy tree, and lying there underneath, hands folded on her stomach, eyelids fluttering closed.
Hermione is chasing after her, and she is vaguely aware of girly-shrieks escaping from her mouth. Oh, she doesn't care, because the wind is in her hair, raking through it as she runs, and her hands are clutching at the skirts of her dress and her bare feet are in the grass and she sprints with more energy than she should, considering the weather.
Hermione, calling her name threateningly, blurs past her. She, too, was wearing a light summer-dress and holding onto the skirts. Her hair is pulled into a prim ponytail, but her cheeks are flushed and her expression wanton. They tear past the boys in a haze of laughter, feet beating a track in the space of grass between where they lie.
He sits up and his gaze follows them blurrily; his friend rolls onto his stomach and grins. Ron has always liked Hermione in her cotton summer dresses.
The best thing about summer is the Burrow… Is warm apple pie and cold custard in the garden, served with tall glasses of lemonade clinking with ice in the afternoon light that makes her hair glow as if it is on fire… Is midnight Quidditch with the Weasley boys and, lately her… Is his heart thudding in his chest when she offers him her hand and he takes it… Is her shapely figure in those light dresses as she runs and laughs and turns her eyes on him as if she doesn't know… Is that he is of age and no longer needs to seek refuge in the Muggles. He is alone and happy because of it.
Then he hears laughter and is warmed by many smiles and he thinks that maybe he isn't alone.
Later, as she lies in bed below him – Underneath him, she likes to think with inner giggles and outward blushes – her head spins from more than a few swigs of Firewhiskey.
Her room is too hot for sleeping (though Hermione does so soundly), and her covers are thrown back in frustration. She remembers giggling at him; she remembers his eyes and all of that green…green…greenness. She remembers wanting to push him into the grass and press her body against his, remembers wanting him to stop the ache that grows deeper when he gives her that smile… Remembers wanting him to throw her back into the pond if only to cool her off.
His eyes had undressed her that morning by the pond as she, dripping wet, had flicked water in his direction. She is panting and breathless, though she hasn't been running, though she is lying in bed perfectly still. She imagines him above her, long body stretched out on his bed. He wouldn't be wearing a shirt to sleep in – the delicious discovery that he sleeps topless was made only days ago as they bumped into each other on the way to the shower.
She imagines dark hair against a white sheet, black lashes against damp skin, his neck and the dip in his collarbone – which she longs to run her tongue over. She imagines the taste of salt on his skin and the feel of his stomach under her mouth and the shape of his lips when he whispers her name.
She wants to touch herself in the dark.
He has never seen her look more innocent.
He finds her after dinner as the day rapidly fades into night, in the field beyond her home, sitting by her willow tree. That she has a tree both here and at school makes him smile fondly.
A veil of sunset-tinted light shadows her face from him until he is sitting close enough to kiss her, but even from far away he thinks of her as smiling. He remembers that her bare toes twitch and something in the air makes her sneeze.
The grass is too long, wild and still warm from a day of sunshine. Her fingers are light and quick as she links wildflowers into a chain. She reminds him of being six and watching, from a window in Privet Drive, Muggle girls making daisy chains and playing hopscotch on baking hot summer days. And when he is intense and quiet it reminds her of being a child too, she thinks of a time when his name awed her to silence and fingers tremble. She tires of feeling helpless.
Without a word and with shaking hands he plucks a flower and offers it in her direction. She blushes, he hopes, and lets their fingers graze as she finishes her crown. What do you think? She giggles, when the flowers adorn her hair carelessly.
He thinks she looks like a wood nymph or a sprite or something else from a Muggle fairy story, but her eyes are so open and full of laughter, of hope, of affection, that words just won't do anymore.
So he kisses her.
He teaches her that kissing can make her dizzier than flying.
That kisses should come with warnings when he gives them, because she would commit crimes for his. Merlin, she is clinging onto him for precious life.
That boys who play Quidditch have agile hands.
She teaches him that female skin smells nice and that kissing her in just the right place on just the right freckle – that one underneath her left ear – makes her whimper. That when she whimpers her eyes flutter between open and closed, struggling both to watch him and giving in completely.
That Harry, Oh Harry can make him ache.
They are too comfortable with each other to let it change them because, as she reasons in one of their evening discussions, haven't they been pretending they weren't going out for many months?
She still scolds him if he dares to sulk, even for a moment; still beats him at chess with a gleam in her eye, and calls him a loser when he fails to win midnight Quidditch. But now he grabs her behind her brothers' backs and knows she's ticklish. And he wouldn't ever call himself carefree, but he's learning.
She doesn't want to wait.
It has been nice to play and run and kiss and pretend that the war isn't just around the corner but her eyes become suddenly serious in their staring. Their foreheads are warm and pressed together between kisses when she just says it, like that, in her straightforward way. Harry, I don't want to wait.
For a moment he doesn't understand what she's saying. He blinks. And then she feels his skin start to burn underneath her touch.
Ron and Hermione have been waiting for the right moment, but she feels need and desperation and longing, and doesn't want to suppress them any longer. Of course it is his job to take a moral high-ground and tell her all of the things she already knows. She's too young, it's too fast, she has six older brothers…but even in all of this she sees the burn of desire at the back of his green eyes.
She tells him she's sixteen now, not ten, that she's ready and has been for a while, that Ron will probably beat him to a pulp but will secretly be happy for them. She removes his glasses and unhooks her bra and pretends to be confident and self-assured but her fingers are shaking so he takes them in his own and slows her down.
His hand is on the small of her back, which is covered with goose bumps, when he looks at her and says, I'm not going to hurt you Ginny, I promise.
She shows him where to put his hands and how to touch her and they move slowly, learning the curves and dips of each other tentatively. He knows how important it is for girls to take these things slowly so he tries not to rush her, even though his body demands it.
Feather-light touches from snitch-catching fingers are heavenly and she finds herself whispering, in the dark, how much she adores him. She adores the little things: the way he bites his lip when playing chess and the way he wears his house scarf. And in those moments, he feels like she is the centre of the universe because his whole being is drawn in to her while she looks at him intensely.
The real sex is rushed and awkward and over with much panting and sweating – mostly his. She doesn't come and doesn't outwardly mind because she is determined and wanting.
She doesn't come the second or third or even sixth time through that, but somewhere along the way she falls over the edge with him, and his head is pounding with blood and her little hands cling onto him so tightly that nothing ever has felt, or ever will feel, so overwhelming.
Impulsive, feisty, horny, dirty. Sweet, sensitive, calm, patient.
He loves every side she shows him. Playful in the evenings with Ron as they tell stories of growing up, grumpy in the mornings before she's eaten breakfast, soft and purring as she whispers naughty things in his ear when they are alone.
Their hidden relationship is like a drug.
It is a refuge from a world that…that isn't bad enough yet to seek refuge from. But together they can hide away from the impending war, the impending end, the impending feeling that they have fallen in love.
Despite what people like to think, she hasn't been in love with him since she was eleven years old. At eleven it was infatuation; at sixteen it feels something like lust. But under all of those teenage hormones and sneaking around to kiss, love flutters.
Sybill Trelawney has another prophecy and Professor Dumbledore arrives at the Weasley's as soon as a solution is thought of.
She sits very still as she watches a faded version of Trelawney, with her buggy eyes and spindly arms, tell her that everything she once knew is now different. He stands close, not shaking, partly defiant, fingers briefly on her shoulder.
Professor Dumbledore doesn't miss their looks and touches, doesn't ignore them like the rest of the household, knows the first fluttering of love when he sees it. Dumbledore fears he has arrived too late.
The first female born into a pureblood family for many generations will hold the power to tear down our saviour in the final war…She will be a Prophet and a Seer…She will be strength in his time of weakness but he must be aware for she will find his fatal flaw …and she will be the one who destroys his heart…the one who ruins his power…their offspring will bear the mark of greatness…of greatness and pure evil. So one must die for the other to live, one must sacrifice their powers in the final battle…for a love that is allowed to grow this intense will only lead to destruction…
She hears only part of it; Dumbledore's eyes tell her the rest.
She doesn't believe it, as much as she replays the words and thinks of the possibilities, but he has to. That's the difference, the moment everything changes; that's why it all falls apart.
Because he has to believe.
Oh, for Merlin's sake! You sound like Luna Lovegood! She scoffs, tries to keep it light, flashes a small smile. He is unable to smile, he must survive so Voldemort doesn't, but if he survives then she must sacrifice herself. His chest hurts. We aren't getting married or having children, we're just… falling in love.
I can't love you, Ginny. It's a statement. He can't love anyone.
She makes a sound like a squashed cat. So that's it? Her voice squeaks. Please Harry…
Gin, He looks at her with lost, frightened eyes and doesn't fight when she puts her arms around his body. He becomes alive with her touch, alive but defeated by his destiny. I'm the Boy Who Lived, aren't I? He asks in a voice that doesn't sound like his own.
Apparently there's nothing more important than that. She whispers into his chest, then feels guilty. With a soothing voice she tries to reason with him again.
Harry, she pleads, later, when everything has been said, think. How can this be true? How can I be a prophet? I've never seen more than tea-leaves in the bottom of my cup…I don't even remember my dreams. I…
He isn't listening. It's the best thing to do considering the situation. He doesn't want to prolong this more than is necessary; he needs to do the right thing. Ginny. His voice is scratchy, like the bark against her back when they'd kissed, roughly, with juvenile desperation. It makes her shiver. I believe Dumbledore.
We can get through this though, can't we? Together we can… Her beautiful brown eyes fill with tears as she realises she is asking him for more than he can do. For more than what he is willing to give up. Please Harry. Please. Dumbledore isn't always right. You need me, you need love to win, remember? Isn't that what he's always said and now… Her voice is high-pitched and anguished, he knows he is breaking her heart but it has to be done.
Lifting a defiant jaw and unable to look her in the eyes he says: We can't afford to take the risk. It has to be done. And finally. I am the Boy Who Lived.
And nothing's more important than that, is it? She hisses, cheeks on fire as she holds her tears. He has the nerve to move his head. Her scowl deepens. Her earlier look of adoration fades.