Right Where You Left Me by Herminia

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 01/03/2007
Last Updated: 01/03/2007
Status: Completed

"Her brain registers the use of the past tense and wonders momentarily if she’s the same
girl she was at ten years of age, the little girl who kicked up her heels and chased after the
Hogwarts Express as it picked up steam. It’s funny, she thinks; she’s been playing catch-up all
these years." Even if you despise Ginny Weasley with every bone in your body, you MIGHT like
this.




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At half-past two in the morning, she tiptoes downstairs and finds him right where she left him,
sitting upright in the windowsill, his posture alarming, clutching one of Molly Weasley's
crocheted pillows as though it were a life raft, his wand - as ever - within arms' reach.
They're barely staying afloat, the lot of them, and even Ginny Weasley - *especially*
Ginny Weasley - knows this.

“Look at you, Harry. Look at *us*,” she whispers, scooting up close beside him and resting
her chin on his shoulder. Awake, he never makes room for her. Awake, he's unapproachable,
always practicing spells, sizing up maps, and pacing, pacing, *always* pacing. She doesn't
dare burden him with what are - after all - just one young girl's trivial cares and concerns,
not *then*. Asleep, he's reachable - *vulner**able* even - just like everyone
else.

“I always used to think someday you'd turn around and see I'd been waiting for you all
this time.” Her brain registers the use of the past tense and wonders momentarily if she's the
same girl she was at ten years of age, the little girl who kicked up her heels and chased after the
Hogwarts Express as it picked up steam. It's funny, she thinks; she's been playing catch-up
all these years. “It *is* funny, isn't it?” she asks the darkness, double-checking, “That
you were always going to leave me behind in the end…”

“It's alright, you know,” she says after some time, seeking to reassure him even in sleep,
reaching out to touch his arm as she does so. She's closer to him now than she's been in
weeks since Dumbledore's funeral. Perhaps closer to him than she's *ever* been.
It's a painful realization, one that makes her eyes sting and her throat threaten to close
up.

“Why won't you talk to me?” she wonders aloud. The lateness of the hour changes her too. For
once, there's no one to impress. No reason to put on a brave face when she's feeling
anything *but*. “Hermione says - *H**ermione* - she says I can't make you talk.”
She laughs weakly, swiping at a renegade tear. “Well, Hermione always knows best, right?”

She half-expects him to give an answer - waits for it even. And when it doesn't come
(*typical*, she thinks, with something bordering on resignation), she barrels on
recklessly.

“I really did l-l-love you - you know that, don't you? I thought that would be enough to see
us through, but it's not.” She brushes his bangs aside and lets the moonlight fall across his
scar. Maybe, just maybe, she never would have given him a second thought, were it not for that
infamous scar, but none of that matters now. All that matters now is that she says what's on
her mind - what's in her heart - before he awakes and this sort of - this sort of
*intimacy* becomes impossible again - that she plays her hand before she loses her nerve. “I
can't—I can't be your escape, Harry. I can't go on pretending everything's fine,
when *nothing* is. I can't be your escape, when what you need is a - well - when
*all* you need *her*.”

She reels away from him suddenly - before her resolve to do the right thing can crumble - and is
halfway across the room before she dares to look back. “If you ever need me, Harry, you know where
to find me. I'll be right where you left me.”

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