"Not my daughter, you bitch!"
Mrs. Weasley's voice rang across the Great Hall, but this time she was too late. The flash of green light from Bellatrix's wand struck Ginny squarely in the chest. Harry watched helplessly as she crumpled to the ground, her bright hair fanning out against the stone floor like spilled fire. He tried to run to her, but his legs wouldn't move, trapped as if in Devil's Snare. Bellatrix's laugh echoed off the walls, morphing into the high, cold laugh he knew too well—
Harry jerked awake, his heart hammering against his ribs. The sheets were twisted around his legs, damp with sweat. For a moment, the darkness pressed in around him, and he couldn't remember where he was. Then Ron's familiar snoring cut through the silence, anchoring him back to reality. The Burrow. He was at the Burrow, and Ginny was alive. Bellatrix wasn't.
His hands shook as he fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table. The room slowly came into focus – Ron's violently orange Chudley Cannons posters, the camp bed he'd been sleeping on for the past week, the first hints of dawn seeping through the window.
The nightmare still clung to him like cobwebs. He needed to move, to do something, to reassure himself that the war was really over. That they had won, even if victory felt nothing like he'd imagined it would.
His Firebolt stood in the corner where he'd left it, a familiar silhouette in the dim light. Flying was the one thing that still made sense, the only time his mind felt truly quiet. Harry grabbed the broom and padded quietly across the room, careful not to wake Ron.
Out on the landing, he hesitated. Ginny's door was just there, slightly ajar. Before he could stop himself, he took a step closer, listening for the soft sound of her breathing. The nightmare flashed through his mind again – her body falling, her hair splayed out... He gripped the Firebolt tighter, its smooth wood grounding him in reality.
No. He couldn't keep doing this, checking on her like a ghost haunting the hallway. It wasn't fair to either of them.
The kitchen light was on, spilling a warm glow up the stairs. Harry relaxed slightly – Mrs. Weasley would be up again, probably baking to keep her hands busy. Maybe he could grab a piece of toast before heading out to fly. He'd found a secluded field just beyond the orchard where he could soar as high as he wanted, letting the cool morning air wash away the nightmares. Up there, everything made sense. No expectations, no worried glances, no carefully crafted conversations. Just him and the sky, and the promise of sunrise painting the clouds in colors that reminded him life could still be beautiful.
"Morning, Mrs. Weas—" The greeting died in his throat.
Ginny sat at the worn kitchen table, a mug clasped between her hands. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, wearing an old Holyhead Harpies t-shirt that Harry remembered from before... before everything. The Firebolt suddenly felt heavy on his shoulder. Up in the air, he could pretend he was ready to face her. Down here, the weight of everything unsaid pressed against his chest like a physical thing.
She looked as startled as he felt, but there was something else in her expression – a determination that made him think this wasn't entirely a coincidence.
"Early morning flying?" she asked, nodding at the Firebolt. Her voice was carefully neutral, but her eyes gave her away. She'd been waiting for him.
Harry's grip tightened on the broomstick. The field was calling to him, promising escape. Just a few more steps and he could be out the door, up in the air where nothing could touch him. Where he didn't have to see the shadows under her eyes and know he was partly responsible for putting them there.
"I should go—"
"You've been doing that a lot lately." Ginny set her mug down with deliberate care. "The going part, I mean."
Harry shifted the Firebolt to his other shoulder, hyper-aware of how the movement brought him half a step closer to her. "I'm not... I mean, I just..." The words tangled in his throat. How could he explain that every time he saw her, he wanted nothing more than to cross the kitchen and pull her into his arms? That the same impulse that made him want to touch her also made him want to run as far as possible, because the nightmare version of her lying still and cold on the floor felt too real, too possible?
"I like flying in the morning," he finished lamely, knowing how pathetic it sounded. "It's quiet."
Ginny's fingers tightened around her mug, her knuckles going white. "Right. And it has nothing to do with avoiding everyone? Avoiding me?"
The accusation hung in the air between them. A strand of hair had fallen loose from her knot, curling against her neck. Harry remembered how it felt to brush that hair away from her face by the lake at Hogwarts, in what felt like another lifetime. His fingers itched to do it again.
"Ginny, I—" He took an unconscious step forward, then caught himself. The Firebolt knocked against the doorframe, making him jump.
"You what, Harry?" Her voice softened, and somehow that was worse than her anger. "Because I keep trying to understand. One moment you're checking on my door at night – yes, I hear you – and the next you're practically running away from me."
The Firebolt slipped from his shoulder, clattering against the wall. Harry barely noticed. Ginny had stood up, and suddenly the kitchen felt too small, too warm.
"I dream about you dying," he blurted out. "Every night, I see you falling, and I can't... I can't..."
Ginny moved toward him, close enough now that he could see the faint freckles dusting her nose, the tiny scar on her chin from a Quidditch accident years ago. "I'm right here, Harry. I'm not going anywhere."
His hands seemed to move of their own accord, reaching for her face. Her skin was warm under his fingers, alive, real. She tilted her head up, and he could feel her breath against his lips—
"Oi! What's going on down here?"
Ron's voice shattered the moment. Harry jumped back so quickly he stumbled over his fallen Firebolt, nearly taking out the kitchen table. Ginny whirled around, her face flushed.
"Nothing!" Harry said, too quickly, his voice embarrassingly high. He tried to casually lean against the wall but missed, stumbling again.
Ron stood in the doorway in his too-short Chudley Cannons pajamas, looking between them with narrowed eyes. His hair was sticking up on one side, but his expression was unnervingly alert. "Right. Nothing. Just having an early morning chat with your face about two inches from my sister's?"
"Ronald," Ginny's voice had that dangerous edge that reminded Harry forcefully of Mrs. Weasley, "do you really want to start this? Because I have quite a few things to say about early morning chats with Hermione—"
Ron's ears went scarlet. "That's – that's different!"
"Is it?" Ginny crossed her arms. "Because I seem to remember finding you two 'just talking' in much closer proximity than—"
"I'm going flying!" Harry announced desperately, snatching up his Firebolt. His heart was still racing, caught between the lingering warmth of almost-kissing Ginny and the mortification of being caught by Ron.
"Harry—" Ginny and Ron said simultaneously, in completely different tones.
But Harry was already heading for the door, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. The cool morning air hit his face as he escaped into the garden, though it did nothing to ease the burning in his cheeks.