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'After a while Harry found himself taking it out simply to stare at Ginny’s name in the girls’ dormitory, wondering whether the intensity with which he gazed at it might break into her sleep, that she would somehow know he was thinking about her, hoping that she was all right.'
ginny’s here, wearing his boxers, lying to him.
they’re at grimmauld, up in his room at the top of the house – sirius’ room, in his mind, still doesn’t feel like his. she’s sitting cross legged, as she often does, and she’s laughing, as she often does. they’ve cooked dinner, made pasta (‘no i do know pasta’s boring, but we’re going to put olives in it, you know, to make it fancy’ - except they’d bought the olives with the pits still in them and both spent the whole time picking the pits out, piling them up on a little side plate - ‘see, we’ve got a separate olive pit plate! if that’s not fancy, i don’t know what is’).
and now she’s in his bedroom - sirius’ bedroom - and she’s had her shower, and she’s borrowed one of his t-shirts and a clean pair of his boxers, and she’s laughing. she’s got a box of his photos out, peering at them in the warm glow of the oil lamp, snapshots of the past few months she’s missed when she’s been at school. they're mostly of him and teddy, and teddy and his gran, and teddy in the bath and teddy on a walk and teddy in his high chair, more dinner down his front than can possibly have been already eaten.
in her hands is one of ron and teddy. the baby is bonking ron on the nose then just absolutely losing it, roaring with baby laughter, like the funniest thing a person could possibly do is bonk ron on the rose.
‘he just can’t get enough of it!’ she exclaims, delighted. ‘i love how ron just lets him, too. that must really have hurt after a while. ted’s got proper meaty baby fists, they've got real heft to them — ’
he’s watching her across the room, slouched on the armchair, taking her in. he’d never thought his boxers were of the faintest bit of interest before tonight but now she’s wearing them, clean after her shower, just slipped into them, let them hang off her hips and clambered onto the bed, gathering up her bare legs in a lovely pale freckled pile of wonder. her hair’s still drying, damp ends trailing down the shoulders of his t-shirt.
he thinks, idly, that she might be heaven. it’s doing something to him, watching her like this, all loose and laughing and bare-legged, ray of light and warmth and wonder sat atop his bedsheets. it’s turning him on, it’s setting him alight.
‘would ron’d let me whack him on the nose, d’you reckon, or do you think it’s only teddy allowed — ’
she’s been gone so long. ages. he did a year without her but the months since september have felt like a lifetime. he’s spent so many evenings in this room since then, by himself, lying in a dead man’s bed looking at photos of dead people and thinking about dead people, in this dusty coffin of a house, waiting for word from her sent down from scotland.
he always reads her letters up here. he saves them to read after work to delay the gratification, or to read after dinner, partly so his housemates don’t see but also he doesn’t flick bits of spag bol and curry on them. doesn’t want them spoiled. so when he’s finally climbed the four flights up and showered, hosing his miserable day off him, he lies back on the dead man’s bed and unfurls the parchment and holds her days in his hands. she tells him about hogwarts, listens to her tell funny stories about hagrid’s cooking (bad) and hagrid’s baking (worse) and hermione’s every worry and luna’s every thought (sometimes profound, frequently deranged). he laughs aloud at them while her little owl flies circles around his head, reads his favourite bits over and over, marvels at her wordplay, her comedic flourishes, her pithy turns of phrase. runs his forefinger over her parting words (yours, she writes, gin).
then, when he’s wrung every last bit of her out of these paper versions of her, he lowers them onto the little stack he keeps by his bed for re-reads while he waits for another, reaches for his quill.
her letters sit beside his mother’s and the map. he absolutely doesn’t look at it that much (really not that much), just keeps it close to say hi to her when he needs direction, when he’s lost, when he needs to know true north.
he loves her letters. no-one’s written to him since 1996, not since sirius. and now the funniest loveliest most magical girl in the world writes him five times a week. they sail through his window, like little guiding balls of light from forever ago, pure illumination. they're the best bits of his week, her letters, paper proof of her love.
she's lying to him, though. she keeps saying she's fine. he knows that's not true. looking back, he wonders why he ever thought it would be. he's always known she's a good liar. arrogant of him, perhaps, that it never occurred to him he might be on the receiving end of it. in the letters, she could hide it all much better, chucking him joke after joke, breezing past whatever it is that haunts her thoughts with the hasty flourish of her quill. in person, though, the mask slips more often. he sees it in that look on her face when she stares off into space in the silences, feels her thrown from her nightmares beside him after he's woken from his own. if he were to look back through the stack of letters by the bed - not that he needs to, he knows them practically by heart - he knows he'll find her sparkling, shining, best foot forward, all for show. there'll be no sign of weakness, not an ounce of wobble. something's wrong with her, he knows it is, though she won't tell him. won't let him close.
he hates being left in the dark. hates being lied to. anyone else, he'd be shouting the house down, wouldn't he?
‘it’s just the gift that keeps on giving.’ she’s still on the photograph. ‘how does it just keep getting funnier. it’s the bit where he almost pokes ron in the eye and ron has to pretend his eyes aren’t watering, i think that’s the best bit - ’
all he wants to say is: gin, stop laughing a sec. stop lying. he wants to take the box of photos off her and put it on the side and hold her hands and say come on, stop this, tell me. he imagines crouching before her, asking: what's going on? what's up with you? and what did you mean, when you said it’d be ok, if i left and did christmas without you? did you think that’s what i want? paranoid thoughts: are you trying to hurt me? why would you not tell me the truth?
he doesn’t do any of that, though. instead, he just watches her from the armchair. of course, she catches him looking. ‘what?’ she says, smiles. she is lovely. ‘what are you looking at, potter?’
‘you,’ he says, truthfully. god, her legs are good. the thought of her bare skin brushing against the cotton doesn’t so much as lodge in his mind as it does start to lay down concrete foundations.
she follows his gaze, glances down at her thighs - thighs that plague his waking thoughts at least once mid-morning and once mid-afternoon. when she looks up, her eyes are that bit darker. ‘is it the me in your underwear thing?’
‘mm.’
‘ah.’ she nods, faux-thoughtful. ‘what is it about it, do you reckon?’
‘dunno,’ he says, truthfully. ‘could just be your legs.’
‘interesting.’
‘they’re nice legs.’
he doesn’t miss the swift spread of blush. ‘so it’s not the possessive thing, then?’ she asks, slyly.
‘it’s not not that.’
she reclines on the bed, then, drunk on her power. pushes her hips forward, his boxers hung low on them, and looks down at her own front, where her t-shirt clings to her the swell of her chest. the ends of her wet hair are soaking the fabric though.
he knows he should say it. he should say gin, come on, what are we doing. cut it out. stop turning me on, start telling me the truth.
he doesn’t do that, though. instead he says: ‘come here.’
she slides her legs off the bed. he goes to touch her, to bring her to his lap, wanting to hold her. wants the feel of her to steady him while her thoughts are out of reach. instead she kneels before him, gently parts his legs. she pulls him from his trousers. he’s embarrassingly hard already: she keeps her bright brown eyes on him as she starts to stroke him. then she ducks her head to take him into her mouth.
‘ah, gin - fuck - ’
he runs a hand through her wet hair, watches her. he loves watching, usually. but something about it isn't right. not tonight. not her on her knees on the ragged carpet, making him feel good, all for him.
gently, he guides her off him. he sees her frown, watches the self-conscious flicker of worry twitch at her lower lip. she goes to stand. as she does, he reaches for her, guides her towards him. slowly, she pulls his boxers down from her hips to her ankles, slides a leg either side of his, lowers herself down onto him with a shiver, easy. when her hips at last meet his he runs both hands up her thighs, takes in the sight and the feel of her, the only real thing in the world. slowly, he starts to move. he watches her eyelids flutter shut as she lets go, leans in to dip her head in the crook of his neck, lets him take her weight.
he's still clumsier than he'd like at this. he searches for the angle, tries to chase the sound of her breaths, her gasps, her murmurs in his ear. he makes love to her, and tries to tell her, tries to get her to feel what he can’t quite make himself say, as he holds her against him. gin, he pleads, it’s just me. you can tell me. you can tell me anything, don't you know that?
later - after - he lies awake beside her. there’s a crack in the fraying curtains, and he stares out at the city behind smudged glass, watching strangers’ shadows in the distant windows, the spiky smatterings of chimneys and satellite dishes. she’s curled towards him, one hand under her chin. the other's gone slack in his. it's like she's already slipping back away from him. he imagines her stuffing secret thoughts and strange half-truths back in her trunk, hauling it north of the border, back out of reach. soon she’ll be gone, leaving again - taking a train - and all that will be left for company will be cold parchment and trails of ink, clutched in lonely hands at the top of this grim old house. he'll want to watch her on the map. it won't be enough. please don't go again, he thinks. feels like a child. please just stay. please talk to me. please just tell me truth.