(no subject)
Title: split up, they find each other
Author: animimares
Beta: MuggleMomma, all remaining mistakes are my own.
Characters: Ginny, Harry, Draco and Neville.
Pairings: Harry/Draco, mentions of Ginny/Harry.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character death, angst and not explicit violence
Word Count: 10.455
Summary: It isn’t because Ginny is in love with Harry anymore - she is not. She is simply worried about him, because Malfoy’s sudden interest in him (anyway, she tells herself it’s sudden) can only mean that something is bound to go very, very wrong. Nevertheless, Ginny has no choice but to watch from the sideline as events prove her right and her world breaks into pieces all around her. What she did not consider before, however, was that maybe she is not the only one who has to let go.
Author’s Notes: This is written from Ginny’s point of view (as the summary might hint), but do not let it scare you away, because HD is the ship in focus. This story is very angsty and takes place during the last 24 hours of the war. Read and review, please.
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split up, they find each other
From the doorway to the old Scottish clan house that had once belonged to McGonagall but now houses the Order of the Phoenix, Ginny watches Harry sitting in the garden. All the windows and doors have been left open to catch any wind that might decide to drop by, and most of the permanent residents of the house have retreated to their private rooms, trying to escape the absurd heat of this first real summer’s day. Harry is the obvious exception, of course, sitting with his back against the giant chestnut tree, his shirt abandoned to a red heap in the green grass and his head tipped back to keep his face hidden in the merciful shadows of the crown.
Sighing, Ginny lets her eyes sweep over his face, searching for a contented smile or an expression of enjoyment, but finding only unreadable relaxation. She hadn’t really expected to find a smile; because she honestly can’t remember the last time she has seen Harry look truly happy. None of them have smiled much lately. They haven’t had much to smile about, really, since Fred and George had gotten killed months ago and Tonks had disappeared into thin air. Besides that, they don’t have time for smiling anymore; the days are a blurry rush of meetings and curse practicing and Horcrux research, no joke able to be squeezed in between the bricks of war.
She bites her lip, trying to remember when she last saw Harry smile - the memory comes quickly to the front of her mind, though she wishes it hadn’t, because it’s more recent than she had wanted for it to be. Pushing the unwanted pictures away again, she instead tries to recall when he has last smiled at her. It’s too long ago, and dreamlike pictures from their short time together at Hogwarts pass by like a train in her head - flash after flash of black and white memories.
A year has passed since the burial of Dumbledore and Harry hasn’t sought out her company much since then. He didn’t protest when she packed her things to go with him when Ron and Hermione brought him to the Burrow in the end of summer to start their search for Horcruxes, but neither did he ever verbally approve of it - only giving her a fleeting glance before nodding.
In the beginning she didn’t feel disappointed about his lack of interest in her because she had assured herself that it was for the best. He needed to focus on the war and the Horcruxes, on being the promised hero, the leader of the pack and on making sure they’d win. After they moved into McGonagall Mansion, however, she began feeling it would be safe to nurse their broken relationship. This thought resulted in her catching him alone in the living room one evening to talk things through. Before she could say a single word though, Draco Malfoy had appeared in the middle of the room; his eyes wide and his face red from blood, his clothes dirty. He looked like someone who had run through a forest, twigs whipping him in the face and mud saving him from breaking bones when he occasionally fell. He looked like a broken soldier - a discarded toy, mostly - and before she had any time to react he had fainted, falling to the floor with a dull thud, Harry by his side before she had time to blink.
After Malfoy’s sudden arrival, everything had changed too quickly for her to follow. Malfoy was put to trial before the entire Order, forced to sit through a long, unpitying interrogation about his motives for this sudden change of heart and about the Dark Mark which was nothing but a faint brush of black on his arm. Every of his answers had been short, to the point but no further, uttered in an emotionless, cold voice. Only when Moody had demanded that he tell them the last thing he remembered before fleeing did he refuse, snarling that it was private. Harry had stepped in, agreeing that it was none of their business and if Malfoy was for real he should be granted the chance to prove it. This settled matters, and Ginny had only been able to watch passively as Malfoy was given the only available bedroom left in the house.
The first months Harry had used his time making sure Malfoy knew his new responsibilities as a member of the Order. He had tested him in every way possible, dragging Malfoy along with him to all of his own secret missions, before finally (one morning at their usual strategy meeting over breakfast) he had poured him a cup of tea and the Order had heaved a sigh of relief. Malfoy had been approved; he was safe.
Ginny Weasley is not one for forgiving and forgetting - she’s the type who holds on to her petty anger and hatred as much as she does to her deep love and care for people.
She remembers her first year at Hogwarts; she remembers the Chamber of Secrets and her childish crush as well as her loneliness. She even remembers Tom Riddle, though she rarely thinks of him if she can avoid it. Above all of this, however, she remembers the diary and who gave it to her; who caused all the pain she was suffering that year. This, more than anything, is the reason why she’s now standing on the porch in front of the outer kitchen door, watching Harry as he for once lets his guard down. He has grown and matured so much since the war started that she barely recognises him - and it makes her want to rip apart everything that has come between them.
“Hi,” she greets him as she approaches, the three steps separating the porch from the lawn creaking under her shoes and the faint wind brushing a lock of her hair into her eyes. Harry opens one eye lazily to gaze at her, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. She looks over her shoulder to see if anybody’s watching them from the kitchen before sitting down next to him, the bark of the tree cool through her thin summer dress.
“Hello,” he answers, his movements languid as he cocks his head to watch her with a warm gaze. His glasses are slightly askew and tentatively she reaches her hand out to correct them. His eyes burn green at her as she does so. She feels herself blush slightly, the air around them exuding warm skin and sunshine - all the smells of summer. “It’s been a long time,” he continues his unfinished greeting and if she didn’t know him so well she would’ve though it a strange thing to say. They meet every day, they work closely together like all people in the Order do - but she knows that he’s referring to the time that has passed since they last talked face to face. It seems to be an eternity ago.
“I know.”
Her answer is too short and there is so much she wants to say, but the words slip from her mind before she can hold onto them. Instead, she makes the pause a full stop, waiting for him to take his cue, to make the first move.
They sit in silence for a while and she suddenly finds it impossible to talk to him when he doesn’t break the ice. What can she say? How to bring it up when it’s maybe not even any of her business? Shaking her head slightly, she almost smiles at herself. She knows Harry well - she has grown up with him, she has seen his development from a confused 11-year-old into what he is today. To be honest, she probably knows him better than most people - her early interest had bordered on an obsession. And she knows that frankness has always worked the best when it came to Harry. Blunt honesty, something that would take him by surprise. Only that way you could be sure to get the truth.
When she turns her attention back to him he has yet again closed his eyes, scratching mindlessly at his arm. She has never seen him be quite this unaware of himself before. The Harry she recalls from Hogwarts wouldn’t run around without his shirt on; he would be too self-conscious to do so, no matter how many people told him he looked good. Harry was never unattractive, she should be the first to admit it (neither was he handsome like Cedric Diggory had been, mind you), but he had pleasant features and a nice body. Maybe some of his charm was his awkwardness, she thinks idly - remembering the way she had waited for him to come around. It felt as if she had waited forever. Now with that familiar awkwardness gone, this… strange unawareness of himself seems fitting, if not directly striking.
“For how long have you been shagging Malfoy?”
The question does not make him jump like she had supposed it would. Instead he opens his eyes, blinking a couple of times against the bright sunlight before looking at her, his features blank in a scary replication of the mask Malfoy often wears; only his eyes show that she has hit bull’s eye, burning with a fire she hasn’t seen there for a very long time.
“For how long have you known?”
His question forces a slight flush to her neck, an unjustified feeling of guilt coiling in the pit of her stomach as she thinks about what she saw.
She looks away from his gaze that is penetrating her with an almost tangible force. It scares her somewhat, because his power has never been quite this evident to her. Before the war he was just Harry, but now he has become “Harry the Hero” to her - “Harry the Saviour, the Chosen One”. None of them are Harrys she considers to be real. They are just masks he wears to survive - when all comes down to it they have different ways of dealing with this, with killing and death being an unchangeable part of their everyday lives. She doubts anyone knows “just Harry” any longer and the knowledge that she is not the only one who can’t reach him fills her with an immature smugness.
Playing with a lock of her hair, her eyes search the garden as she tries to ignore the pictures quickly flashing in her head in some insane imitation of disco lights. War has taught her one important lesson: sometimes ignorance is much easier. Right now she wishes for things to be less complicated, for the images in her mind to go away and leave her in ignorant peace.
His hand is warm against her shoulder as he leans in closer, trying to catch her eyes. “I refuse to believe that you were simply guessing, Gin,” he tells her and she shrugs his hand off irritably, feeling both embarrassed and angry with him for not feeling the same, for not even having the decency to blush at her knowledge. For not… Ginny is angry about so many things these days, so many things that she has a hard time telling them apart.
As she snaps out her answer, her voice is more of a huff than she had intended it to be, but there’s nothing to do about it. She wants him to know that she doesn’t think it is okay. Not even remotely so.
“Don’t call me that!” She purses her lips, glaring at him. “And I have known since last night. I saw you in the library.”
She had wanted something to read; something that didn’t focus on violence or war or battle strategy or curses that could kill but weren’t illegal. Grabbing one of the candles floating around the doorway to the enormous McGonagall Library, she had found her way through the maze of bookshelves, fingers running lightly over the spines of ancient books which titles she had a hard time making out; faded as they were from time and dust.
A small sound, almost a sigh, on the other side of a high shelf with dictionaries had stopped her movement down a never-ending row. Listening carefully to figure out who besides her was up this late, she had pressed herself flush against the bookcase, quietening her breathing. Training came in handy now; Ginny had been one of the best in the Order at disguising herself and hiding. With Tonks gone, she was probably the most talented left.
“Potter. That’s stupid and you know it.”
It was Malfoy, his voice filled with a repressed emotion that could be anger or maybe something else. Unease? Ginny wasn’t quite sure; she had never heard Malfoy express anything other than disgust, contempt and rage. There was a ruffle of movement then (someone putting down a bag or a jacket) and suddenly Harry’s voice sounded almost right next to her; indicating that he was standing right on the other side, probably leaning against the same shelf as she.
Pushing a couple of dictionaries aside, she wondered if she would get to see one of the infamous Potter vs. Malfoy fights. Ron had told her that the two of them had had an enormous argument in the kitchen in front of the entire Order some weeks ago, ending up on the floor, punching and kicking at each other with vehemence.
“There’s no other way, Malfoy.” Harry was indeed standing just on the other side, Malfoy sitting on the edge of a small desk opposite of him, his face pale in the light of a couple of transfigured candles (judging from the smell of sandalwood these candles had once been book ends) . Ginny had looked from one to the other, trying to figure out when they would start yelling, her horrible curiosity also triggered by their hushed voices. Harry sighed. “Please tell me what else there is to do?”
“If you would just tell Granger, I’m sure we’d find another way,” Malfoy huffed, glaring at Harry with a scowl, his frustration clearly shining through. Ginny felt her heart skip a beat - this was no regular fight. What was it Harry had told Malfoy that he didn’t want to tell Hermione, which meant he hadn’t told Ron either? Ron was his best friend, after all, and Ginny had never known them to keep secrets from one another.
Harry made an irritated sound, crossing his arms over his chest in the gesture of defiance Ginny was so familiar with. “I don’t want to start that discussion again - she would panic if she knew and that’s the last thing we need right now. Besides that, she’ll just start asking questions and I really don’t want to have her analyzing this.”
Malfoy closed his eyes and ran a hand down over his face, quite clearly trying to keep himself from strangling Harry. For a moment Ginny felt sympathetic towards him - she had often felt the same way when Harry had started his hero-rants.
“Potter - you can’t ask that of me,” Malfoy wasn’t exactly begging, but there was now rather obviously desperation traceable in his voice. Ginny got to her toes to get a better look of him, the way his eyes were fixed on Harry and his fists clenched as he held on to the tabletop. The expression on his face was totally unknown to her; a mix of anger and… a strange kind of affectionate possessiveness. Harry’s shoulders slumped and Ginny turned her head just in time to see him run a hand through his hair; something he only did when he was feeling uncomfortable.
There was a moment of silence and then Harry took an uncertain step forward which made Malfoy look away with a furrow on his brow and a tensing of his shoulders. Ginny narrowed her eyes, something starting to dawn on her, though her mind couldn’t quite figure out the more concrete aspects of the realization.
“Don’t think I haven’t tried doing it myself, but I can’t… it doesn’t work,” Harry told Malfoy, and there was an apology evident in his voice. Malfoy’s head snapped back up and he was staring at Harry wide-eyed with his mouth slightly agape in shock.
“You’ve WHAT?” Malfoy stood up in a flash, the shelves shaking as he pushed Harry back against them with a surprising strength for his lithe build. Ginny didn’t move, suddenly realising she was now faced with the fight she’d been waiting for; except Malfoy wasn’t making ready to hit Harry - as a matter of fact none of them moved an inch. Holding her breath to be sure they wouldn’t hear her, she waited in agonising silence while the two boys stared at each other, Malfoy’s hands gripping Harry’s shoulder in a what seemed quite painful way.
“Potter - don’t tell me you’ve actually tried…” Malfoy paused, eyes boring into Harry’s as he shifted awkwardly, trying to get away from Malfoy’s hands, though he never made a move as to break their eye contact. Malfoy groaned as if this was all the answer he needed and leaned in closer (closer than what was strictly necessary, Ginny thought to herself). “Potter, you’re the stupidest, daftest and most foolish idiot I’ve ever met.”
Harry didn’t say anything to that, and Ginny’s eyes widened a little as she realised he was not going to reply. He had never taken crap from Malfoy before. She couldn’t recall a single time where he hadn’t stood up to the spoiled brat; yet this time he simply edged a little closer to Malfoy’s body, hands resting against his chest though he didn’t push him away. Balancing herself, hands grabbing on to the thick books so hard that her knuckles went white, she leaned closer to the small peephole she’d created. Looking for signs that would help her figure out what kept them silent, Ginny narrowed her eyes in suspicion. They were simply looking at each other, Harry’s lip twisting in a half smile (more of a smirk, really) and the air was almost crackling with an unspoken tension. Only seconds before Harry leaned in the last inch and pressed his lips to Malfoy’s, did Ginny recognise the feeling.
She stood flabbergasted as Malfoy’s hands let go of Harry’s shoulders, instead burying them in his hair in the exact same way as she had done all the times she and Harry had kissed. It took a minute for her to comprehend that she should probably look away by which time they had pressed against each other, mouths opening and the kiss growing in intensity. She didn’t look away, though. She stood frozen, staring as Harry bit Malfoy’s bottom lip, following the movement up with a soothing tongue stroke. There was a mix of gentleness and need that told her they were accustomed to this way of being together, that it wasn’t just a crazy idea of the moment or a result of too much unresolved, angry tension. It was… it was something they had had going on for a long time.
This realisation made her stumble backwards, almost crashing into a pile of books on the floor, telling herself as she turned to run that they wouldn’t notice anyway, because she had caught a brief glimpse of where Harry’s hand was heading.
Harry sighs, closing his eyes and running his hand through his hair, muttering inaudibly to himself (Ginny suspects that he’s cursing) before looking at her with a slightly worried look. “How much did you hear?” he asks and there’s something detached in his voice, as if he’s trying to stay neutral and trying to keep himself in control. The Harry she knew once wouldn’t have been able to, but this Harry manages just fine. Maybe his Gryffindor bravado has been subdued by Malfoy’s coldness, she finds herself thinking - though somewhere in the back of her mind she’s aware that it can just be yet another sign that he has grown up and started to fit into his role as the hero.
She bites her lip slightly. “About you not wanting to tell Hermione about your…” She doesn’t want to say relationship because that would make it real; that would make it true and it would be horrible, but she cannot find another word that seems fitting. “About you,” she finishes lamely and isn’t surprised to see Harry frowning as if he doesn’t quite understand what she’s trying to say. It takes some seconds before he figures out what she means and then he nods, looking somewhat relieved.
“I’m sorry you had to find out like that,” he tells her in a soft voice, leaning back against the tree again, his eyes never leaving her. Ginny feels the anger turn into something else, something much more hurtful because there is no real apology coming up, no “Ginny, I’m sorry I haven’t told you I like cock”. Looking away from him she tries to find head and tails of her feelings. It’s been a long time since she was really in love with Harry; all that’s left is a strange kind of jealousy, an overprotective feeling and a motherly instinct that tells her she has to keep him safe, both for his and her own sake.
“Nobody was meant to find out, really.”
Ginny knows his gaze is fixed on her as he says it, but she refuses to look back and meet his eyes. It’s his damn problem that they didn’t have the decency to at least find a room. As the anger returns slowly to her body, she finally turns back to him again, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest.
“You haven’t answered my question yet,” she accuses, not feeling like letting the matter drop. Why would he be with Malfoy in the first place? As far as she was concerned he had never taken an interest in boys - not like that - and even if he did like boys that way, he and Malfoy had always hated each other. At least, that was what she had thought - obviously, she was wrong.
“Does it matter?” he asks, and the tiny smile he had given her when she sat down what seems hours ago disappears, only to turn into a frustrated sigh with a somewhat miserable edge to it. “Even sure you want to know, Ginny?” His voice is sad and slightly sarcastic and it makes her want to grit her teeth in insolence, because he’s right - she isn’t sure if she wants to know, except she is and she wants answers.
“Just answer the question, Harry,” she tells him, spitting out his name as some kind of curse, the magic word that will cause him all the pain in the world - Crucio for dummies. If she wasn’t such a nice person, she would have used the Bat-Bogey Hex on him several minutes ago. Pursing her lips, awaiting his response while holding his gaze firmly in place, she tells herself whatever answer he’ll give her won’t hurt - but she knows it’s a lie. He shifts a little uncomfortably, reaching out for his shirt and she recognises some of old Harry “just Harry” in that movement and it almost makes her soften. Almost.
“It’s been going on since the attack in Diagon Alley, since Fred and George were killed. There was something going on before that - but that was just the first time we…” He tugs the shirt down over his head, taking the chance to look away from her, this time with a slight flush colouring his cheeks. He doesn’t continue the sentence, doesn’t finish it and she knows he was probably not going to say “the first time we were aware of it” or something equally innocent.
She buries her fingers in the green grass that has grown long during spring, staring at him. Why hadn’t she noticed? How couldn’t she? People acted differently around each other when they started having sex - she should have noticed. Maybe you did, a little voice in her mind tells her and it makes her angry because she had god damn well known Malfoy would be nothing but trouble.
“You’ve shagged for six months without telling anybody,” she concludes his silence and her hard intonation makes him finally raise his head again to send her a tense glance. She doesn’t care about the hurt she sees there or the way his lips start to form what could be an apology or an explanation. She doesn’t want his words. Is she really the only one who can figure out that Malfoy suddenly wanting to get in Harry’s pants means that there’s something awfully wrong? “You’ve been shagging Draco Malfoy for six months without telling any of us - Harry, what were you bloody thinking?”
She stands up, putting her hands on her hips, glaring at him. He only lets her have that advantage for a couple of seconds before getting to his feet himself, leaning casually against the trunk of the tree. Suddenly she has to look up to send him a glare and it doesn’t feel quite as satisfactory. She wonders, almost as an afterthought, if he feels the same way about Malfoy being taller than him.
“It’s not like it was something I… either of us had planned on,” he says slowly, his hands curling into fists. She hadn’t thought that he was ready to fight her over it, but on the other hand, what does she know about him anymore? “And it’s not like it matters. What difference does it make in the end?” There’s something poignant in his voice as he says it, something held back and aching in there and Ginny wonders if Malfoy has already done his fair share of damage.
“What if he were a spy and Voldemort used him to get to you?” she asks, wanting him to think things through for once. Besides her feminine pride being rather hurt by him choosing a guy over her (and a guy like Malfoy at that), she suddenly sees thousands of ways Malfoy could use Harry’s trust against them. “What if he chose to give shit about us in the end and went to Voldemort with all our secrets?” Her voice has grown shrill as she tries convincing him that it was careless of him, wanting for him to see it from her point of view, though she knows just by the cold look in his eyes that it’s a lost battle.
He pushes himself off the tree, stepping so close to her that the weak summer breeze makes her hair brush his neck. They stare at each other for some seconds, both stubborn and both angry with the other. Ginny’s lips are pressed together in a thin line as she considers slapping Harry, just for good measure.
“I trust Malfoy - that should really answer all of your what ifs,” he says, his voice chilly as he carefully forms every word just to get his point through. “He ended up here for a reason, you know. The chances of him turning back to Voldemort are about as big as Ron suddenly becoming a Death Eater.” In the back of her mind a ridiculous image of her brother with a Death Eater’s mask pops up and the absurdity of it only makes her feel even more cross. How dare Harry compare those two things: it’s not the same at all!
“What reason do you have to trust him, Harry? Does he really give that good head?” she snarls viciously, though she has no idea why she asks that because it’s stupid and she feels stupid saying it, especially as Harry pales, eyes growing wide before his pupils dilate from anger. She tries to make up for it by adding, “Don’t you remember how he behaved towards us at school? Don’t you remember that it was him who let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts - he caused Dumbledore’s death!” The last three statements are almost pleading, kind of panicked, because the crackling, tangible force of his fury frightens her so much so she has to step back from him.
“That’s bullshit, Ginny - we’ve all changed since Hogwarts. Look at yourself! Look at me! We’re not the same people we were back then; no one is.” His expression softens a little when he realises he’s been yelling. Out the corner of her eye Ginny sees someone move in the kitchen, but all her attention is focused on Harry and she knows she’ll lose this battle if she looks to the side to check who is watching them. The next sentence Harry utters is more persistent, a hoarse whisper though she has no problem catching any of the words.
“Voldemort killed Malfoy’s mom in front of him; he has no reason to turn back to that - besides that he’s promised…” He falls silent. Ginny forgets everything about their potential audience in the kitchen at Harry’s sudden halt, an expression of fear, almost shock, crossing his features.
They stand in silence, Harry not quite meeting her eyes. Ginny feels a sudden urge to hug him because she’s never seen him look this vulnerable before. Before her better half can protest, she steps up to him again, letting her arms encircle his waist and pressing herself against his body, trying to fall back into the role of not-loving-girlfriend, but loving almost-sister. He stands awkwardly stiff in her embrace for some seconds before softening to her touch and hugging her back, resting his chin on the top of her head.
“I’m just worried about you,” she tells him softly, not letting go. “If something happened… What would we do without you?” He stiffens again, and she repeats her sentence in her head, trying to find a reason for him to feel hesitant. He pushes lightly at her shoulders and she steps back unwillingly, looking up at him.
“You’ll survive,” he says in a harsh tone as if he’s trying to convince himself that it’s the truth. She frowns as he takes her hands, entwining their fingers like he used to do when they sat together in Gryffindor common room in the end of her fifth year and finally he smiles at her - just slightly. “I still care about you, you know,” he tells her and the words are only a little awkward, though not directly forced, as if he hasn’t said anything like it for a long time (and he probably hasn’t, she suddenly realises). “It’s different with Malfoy. We…” He’s about to continue, but from the doorway someone coughs a bit too politely for it to be anything but an insult. Ginny knows who it is long before she turns her head to look.
Malfoy is indeed standing in the doorway, leaning arrogantly against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest and one eyebrow raised as his gaze wanders between Harry and Ginny. Harry roles his eyes before pulling Ginny into another hug that takes her completely by surprise.
“Didn’t want to part on bad terms,” he whispers in her ear before stepping back and turning towards Malfoy with a similar expression of mock surprise. His words leave Ginny confused as her gaze follows Harry walking up to the door, stopping in front of Malfoy on the porch. They watch each other for a moment, as if they’re speaking without using any words. Ginny suddenly knows that there’s something in the air, some kind of foreboding - something she ought to stop up and take a closer look at. Harry gives her one last glance over his shoulder, sending her a reassuring smile before stepping inside the house and out of sight. Malfoy doesn’t move, but his gaze challenges Ginny’s and she returns the favour by sending him her most hateful glare, feeling for all in the world like a bitch trying desperately to mark her territory. Malfoy raises an eyebrow at her, smirking contemptuously before wordlessly turning on his heel and following Harry inside the house.
Ginny sits back down, leaning heavily against the tree. She can feel someone watching her and looking up, she meets Neville’s gaze through the kitchen window. He smiles at her nervously and she responds with a smile of her own, wondering if it was him or Malfoy she could feel watching before.
Neville doesn’t come out to join her: instead, he disappears in the same manner as Harry and Malfoy had, and when Ginny looks back upon this moment later on, she knows she should have seen it coming. She should have figured it out already then - not because she didn’t have the inkling, but she just didn’t dig deeper into the question.
Sometimes she still wonders why.
~*~
At suppertime three chairs are left empty at the table and Ginny knows right away that something is wrong… horribly, terribly wrong. Hermione huffs and is about to get up, but Ginny gets to her feet first, stammering out some excuse to go look for Harry as she almost stumbles up the stairs to his room.
His door has been left ajar, but no stripe of light falls over the hallway floor. She stands for some seconds with her hand pressed flat against the cool wood, eyes closed as she tries to calm down her heart. She’s simply exaggerating, she must be, because nothing’s wrong, Harry’s fine - nothing’s wrong. She mutters this to herself over and over again until it has become a mantra and she can find the strength to push the door open. Just a tiny push, enough for her to get a full view of the room. Just enough for her to be sure Harry is simply sitting on his bed, reading or writing a letter or…
She screams.
Harry’s lying on his back in the middle of the room, the light from the setting sun falling in blood red streams over his face, his hair as unruly as ever. His features are peaceful and there’s a little smile waiting for its turn to be smiled in the corner of his mouth. His eyes are closed and Ginny can almost convince herself he’s just asleep by the way his hand is resting on his stomach and his head is turned a little to the side. He looks more peaceful, more at ease than she has seen him in a very long time. Stepping into the room and falling to her knees beside his body, she stares at him in search for any sign of life - though she already knows she’ll find none.
“Harry,” she whispers, edging closer, hands floating in the air a few inches over his chest where his Gryffindor red shirt is rumpled as if someone caught it in a fist before he could fall backwards. His lips are only slightly parted, caught in an eternal exhale. She is afraid to touch him; she’s afraid he’ll be cold. Harry was never cold, he was always warm from the fire burning within him and she doesn’t want to ruin that image of him, she doesn’t want to experience him any other way so her hands fall to her lap instead of reaching out to him.
She doesn’t pay attention as the rest of the Order bursts through the door, wands drawn, alerted by her cry which to her seems to have been uttered years ago. There is a second of deafening silence before their minds make a link between Harry on the floor and Ginny on her knees beside him and her scream - but then the silence in the room is disturbed by yelling and cursing and Hermione’s never-ending sobbing. Ginny feels as if she’s caught in some kind of haze as she looks around the room, trying to make some meaning of the maze of thoughts running amok in her head.
“The Killing Curse…” someone concludes, but Ginny can’t be bothered to figure out who. Her eyes come to a halt on the wand lying innocently in the shadows underneath Harry’s bed, wandtip pointing towards her in some bizarre game of Spin the Bottle. It isn’t Harry’s wand, because she knows Harry’s wand almost as well as she knows her own. This wand is longer than Harry’s and made of redwood, pale and slender like its owner.
No one notices as she picks up Malfoy’s wand from the floor and pushes and shoves her way towards the door. She runs down the hallway, the carpet swallowing up the sound of her bare feet against the floor and her mind a red fog of anger and grief (oh, so much grief), though she hasn’t quite realised exactly what the not-really-sleeping Harry lying on the floor back in his room means yet. She only knows that Malfoy has caused it and that it is unfair, because… because somehow Harry loved him and she’s going to make him pay before he can run anywhere. If she’s lucky she can maybe even make him regret the day he was born.
Malfoy’s room is only a few doors away from Harry’s and not before stopping in front of it does she realise how convenient that must have been for them. Again, she finds herself wondering why she hadn’t seen the signs, why she hadn’t noticed anything - but she doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought because there’re sounds coming from the other side of the door. Hushed sounds, as if someone’s trying to do a lot of things at once; hurrying and trying not to panic at the same time.
She clutches Malfoy’s wand in her hand, suddenly aware that this is the wand that killed Harry, the one that took him away from her. Tasting bile in the back of her throat, she feels like dropping the rather beautiful piece of wood and vomiting until her heart is gone and will stop hurting forever. She does neither: instead, she opens the door as quietly as she can, closing it slowly behind her as she steps in.
Malfoy doesn’t look up from where he’s examining a gigantic map spread out on his bed and she thinks he hasn’t heard her, but then he starts speaking in an irritated voice - seemingly expecting someone else.
“How stupid can you be anyway? Forgetting your wand of all things - we really don’t have time for this; the Dark Lord will only be in the cave for a couple of hou…” He looks up, eyes dark but hollow as if he, too, is simply acting on instinct right now - just like Ginny is. He stops dead as he eyes her, his entire body freezing and his words dying on his lips. Ginny doubts that she can move herself, though her body disagrees by throwing his tainted, tainted wand to the floor in front of his feet. Malfoy only spares it a single glance before looking up at her again, this time with a shattered glint in his eyes, the emotionless surface not at all perfect any longer.
“You shouldn’t be one to talk about forgotten wands, Malfoy,” she tells him with a hiss, suddenly feeling her body shaking wildly, her heartbeat fast and her blood roaring in her ears. “It seems you forgot yours, too.”
His jaw is clenched and his hands are gripping the wrinkled parchment convulsively in a way that reminds Ginny of the way he was holding on to Harry’s shoulders just before they kissed. The abhorrence boils hot within her and when he doesn’t answer her something finally snaps. How can he just stand there and not say anything? How can he not explain - how can he live with himself after this? After…
With a snarl that represents the one of a wild animal she lunges at him, knocking into him almost head first making them both tumble over on top of the map with little, black dots moving about and green lines symbolizing trees and forests and blue lines showing where there’s water. She claws at him as he crashes backwards into the wall, tears from nowhere running down her cheeks. She doesn’t even see him properly as she throws punches at him, blindly aiming for places she is certain will hurt. All the same he’s still stronger than her and she only gets to slap him twice (once on each cheek) before he has her pressed up against the wall, hands crushing her upper arms against the cold stone.
In silence they stare at each other, both breathing heavily and Ginny twisting in his grip. His fingers dig in painfully and the tears won’t stop running as she thinks about how those fingers got to have Harry, only to throw him away.
She spits in his face and suddenly his eyes don’t seem quite so dead anymore - instead he narrows them so there’re only silver grey slits left and his mouth curls in disgust.
“You killed him, Malfoy,” she tells him in a voice that isn’t her own, shrill and tearful as it is. His fingers bore deeper into her shoulders and he looks away, closing his eyes as if he can’t even stand looking at her. It makes her feel furious, to realise that he’s so much of a coward that he can’t even face the consequences of his own actions. “He trusted you,” she then yells, kicking at him though he manages to pull back from her without being hit, stumbling off the bed, only stopping when he’s at a safe distance at the opposite end of the room. She doesn’t move, instead she stares at him from where he has left her, blinking angrily to keep the next stream of hysterical tears at bay.
“He trusted you, and you killed him!” The words are like blazers against her tongue, painful to wrap her lips around, cutting into her as she pronounces them with a slow-building rage dripping from ever letter. She gets to her knees, fingers gripping the blanket so hard she can feel her nails cut into her palm through the thick material.
Malfoy opens his mouth as to say something, but closes it again before reaching up to wipe her saliva off his cheek. “I don’t owe you any explanations,” he finally says, bending down to pick up his wand, though he pockets it quickly, as if the tree would burn him, like some kind of strong acid in its solid form.
She doesn’t care that he won’t answer her. She just wants him to know how much she hates him for what he’s done, for proving her right… for proving that she was right about him and Harry was wrong and now… now Harry’s dead.
“Was it some kind of disgusting turn-on for you?” she asks slowly, disgust pouring over him with every word. Ginny crawls over the bed on all fours, her lips trembling as she stops at the edge, sitting up to be on eyelevel with Malfoy. He pales at her words, his skin seeming ghostly, translucent white, his eyes widening just a little and his hands curling into useless fists at his sides.
“Did it turn you on to know that in the end you could simply kill him off while he thought it actually meant something to you?” A memory of one of the secret snogs between Harry and herself enters her mind and she remembers the careful way he would touch her. She suddenly wonders if that was what Malfoy discarded as some kind of garbage, that nearly awed look in green eyes and soft, careful fingertips. The thought fills her with a deep, deep loathing. Harry deserved so much more than that… to think that Malfoy had simply used him in such a way… She stands up, walking up close to him. He doesn’t even try to step back from her, but when she meets his eyes there is a rebellious fire burning in there, a pride that she hates more than anything. Pureblood pride, not anything she ever knew about.
She wants to crush him between two fingers like she would a tiny bug; she hates him for destroying everything - everything from ending the war in Voldemort’s advantage to taking Harry away from her and offering him something she never knew he wanted. Her lips turn upwards in an almost manic smile as she reaches one hand out to brush some non-existent dust off his shoulder, speaking softly:
“Did it turn you on to know that he loved you all along and you could simply crush that lov…”
She doesn’t get further than that, because Malfoy has grabbed hold of her arm, twisting it around, pushing her hard back against the bed.
“Shut up,” he snarls at her, “and don’t even try to speak of something you know absolutely nothing about, Weasley.” She can feel how uncontrollably he trembles, so close are they standing, the bed pressing against the hollow of her knees. She tries not to break down in angry sobbing. Jabbing him furiously in the chest with her elbow she gets him to step back enough for her to get free of his grip.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” she yells at him and his mouth curves in a cruel smirk, his eyes becoming empty, only a hint of scorn showing. “Don’t you think I know about what happened? Don’t you think I know it was your plan all along? You’re not any better than your pathetic father, Malfoy! You never were and you never will be, but Harry believed in you and you let him down!” Her voice breaks and she hides her face in her hands, not caring if he’s going to kill her.
Nothing happens, however, and she is left to stand in the brownish darkness of her palms and the silence of her own and his uneven breathing.
When she finally looks up, he has leaned back against the wall, something unreadable in the expression on his face. She wonders if Harry would have been able to tell how he was feeling. For some reason it wouldn’t surprise her if he could.
“Everything is not always as it seems,” Malfoy says casually, not looking at her; they could as well be discussing the weather. He’s about to say more but the door opens then to reveal a panting Neville. Malfoy’s lips tighten up to a thin line and he pushes the door closed quickly after Neville has entered, turning to him with a cold, dull look in his eyes.
“You do realise they’ll come looking for us before long, Longbottom - where had you put your wand, anyway, the North Pole?”
Malfoy’s anxious about something; Ginny can sense it in the mechanical way he makes everything ready, the map becoming blank under his hands after he has searched it for some sign only he knows of. Suddenly she realises that Neville is still there and nothing makes sense. What is Neville doing with Malfoy? Malfoy has just killed Harry, what is Neville doing here - acting as if they are still on the same side?
A terrible thought claws its way to her heart and she steps in in front of him, staring at him with a begging face. “Neville, please tell me you have nothing to do with this!”
Neville looks from Ginny to Malfoy with a questioning look. Malfoy doesn’t meet his eyes but makes sure that fastening his cloak takes all of his attention. Ginny’s gaze wanders from one to the other, eyes wide and tears dry on her cheeks. She could believe that Malfoy of all people… but… Neville? Neville betraying Harry is a ridiculous thought, so ridiculous it could have made her giggle, hadn’t she been standing in this room, watching as they seemed to make ready to escape. Her worst enemy and one of her best friends. It’s almost as hurtful as watching Harry and Malfoy kiss had been.
“You haven’t told her?” Neville asks of Malfoy who only shrugs, sitting down on the bed with a blank mask - though his skin is still more pale than usual and his eyes remain oddly unfocused.
“He said we should tell as few as possible,” Malfoy answers, his voice as emotionless as his face and Ginny tries to figure out if he does it because he doesn’t care or… because he cares too much. For the first time ever she questions her own conclusion, her own judgment of him.
Neville sighs, clearly choosing that they don’t have time to discuss what whomever they are talking about meant with that. He turns back to Ginny, eyes sad and apologising - Ginny realises that even though this is Neville, he has changed too, and it scares her. Of all the things she had always put her faith in Neville, who had always been one of the most unwavering. She had thought he would never change, and yet here he is - reminding her how much they’d all been through this last year and even this past hour. The memory of Harry’s not-quite smile makes her close her eyes momentarily.
“We don’t have much time for explaining, but I think you should know… I think Harry would have wanted you to know,” he starts, stuttering in the same way he usually does when he’s nervous - only this time he doesn’t stop up and blush, but continues quickly, seemingly scared that she’ll interrupt him now he’s finally begun. Ginny was never a patient person, but something in his eyes makes her close her mouth, waiting for whatever explanation he can give. Biting his lip, he shakes his head slightly as if in wonder, “The last Horcrux wasn’t the snake. Harry killed the snake weeks ago and nothing happened.”
Ginny’s heartbeat echoes in her head. Thump, thump, thump. Malfoy gets to his feet, turning his back on them as if he doesn’t want to listen to Neville’s words, his shoulders tense. He seems impatient and Ginny, through the fog of whats clouding her mind, finds herself questioning what it is they have to do that leaves them in such a hurry.
“But… why didn’t he tell us then? He would have told us if that was the case, wouldn’t he?” she asks undecidedly when Neville pauses. Suddenly what was black and white mere minutes before is now all the colours of the rainbow, confusing her. It doesn’t make any sense (she doesn’t want it to make sense; no, she wants to scream and kick and accuse Malfoy of lying, wants to convince Neville that Malfoy’s a spy) - and yet… if she thinks about it, it fits. Something clicks into place inside her at his words, something that has been nothing but a bunch of glass shards ever since Harry walked into the house this afternoon. She has a vague idea about how it’ll sound, already before Neville’s lips part for the answer.
“Because the last Horcrux was him,” he says and Ginny feels herself shiver violently. She does not want to listen to this; it’s too evil: it’s too unfair. It has to be Malfoy’s excuse for killing him; Neville has been tricked into believing it, because it simply can’t be true. It’s too hurtful.
“Harry was it, he has been all along. Ever since Vol…” Neville still stammers the name out, never really having conquered his fear of the hated word. “Ever since Voldemort tried to kill him when he was a baby. That’s why he was a Parselmouth, that’s why he was nearly sorted into Slytherin and that’s why they had such a close connection.”
Ginny stops dead, an image from a long-forgotten nightmare entering her mind.
Tom Riddle standing in front of Harry far, far beneath the hallways of Hogwarts; the two boys looking too alike for comfort.
Malfoy turns around, glaring at her as if he despises the fact that she has a tough time comprehending Neville’s explanation. There’s a hard line to the curve of his mouth, though his eyes have become just as hollow as they were when Ginny first walked into the room.
“The idiot tried killing himself,” he continues Neville’s story, clearly thinking it is taking too much time. “But he couldn’t make his wand work on himself - like he couldn’t make it work against the Dark Lord’s. The wand core wouldn’t work against the part of the Dark Lord’s soul in him; the part of him that drew the wand to him in the first place.” Malfoy’s lips twist in disgust and Ginny is suddenly aware that Malfoy must have known about it - this, Harry being a Horcrux - when he and Harry had met in the library.
She thinks about a blurred, blood red wall and the magical sentences in her first diary ever; she thinks about soothing, written words in a flourished handwriting, she thinks about “Tom, you’re the only friend I have”. The thought makes something turn inside her, makes her feel sick to her stomach.
“So you killed him…” she whispers, more to herself than to them, but Malfoy catches her words and nods - two angry red spots appearing on his cheeks though he says nothing; nothing else but his slight flush showing his anger.
Neville makes an apologising sound and both Ginny and Malfoy look up at him.
“We have to go now, Malfoy,” he says and Malfoy steps up to him unceremoniously, grabbing hold of his arm - clearly rather eager to get to the next part of their plan; whatever it involves of details. Ginny sits down on the edge of Malfoy’s bed, watching them as Malfoy finds his wand - their movements indicating that they are making ready to Apperate.
She doesn’t ask where they’re going, though the part of her Gryffindor personality that wants to be a part of the battle (the fight to finish what Harry started) begs her to do so. The puzzle inside her makes sense, even though some pieces are still missing. Malfoy killed Harry because Harry was the last Horcrux and now Neville, Neville who was the other boy the Prophecy could have been talking about, is going to finish off Voldemort. It’s both incredibly simple and completely irrational in her mind. She looks up in time to meet Malfoy’s eyes as he turns on the spot, Neville hanging on to him desperately. Only after they have disappeared does Ginny understand the emotion Malfoy was trying to hide all along.
Remorse.
~*~
The night passes by, hour by hour, minute by minute and second by second. The Order locks the door to Harry’s room after they’ve placed him on the bed, waiting for some kind of sign to tell them that Voldemort knows. Hermione and Ron have left to spread the news to friends and family. Harry Potter is dead, killed by his own comrade, Draco Malfoy. The rest of the Order sits in some kind of frozen silence in the kitchen and Ginny tries to imagine what they must be feeling, believing all hope to be dead along with the fallen hero.
She doesn’t know what to think or feel anymore. With the anger and hatred for Malfoy ebbing out, she feels nothing but emptiness. She feels lonely and crushed, because Harry isn’t there anymore. All her hopes and dreams have been centred around him for so long, and now he isn’t there anymore. She’ll never see him again; she’ll never have the chance to tell him all the things she now feels she should have said. Suddenly Harry’s last words make sense - he had meant it quite literally. He didn’t want them to part on bad terms; because he already knew he’d be leaving. For good. Forever.
Among all the things that suddenly make sense, though, one question remains.
As she draws mindlessly with her finger on the tabletop of the wooden table in the kitchen she wonders why Malfoy agreed to it. She wonders if he really didn’t have some secret agenda that neither Harry nor Neville knew about - because she can’t get it to make sense in her head. She would never have been able to… do it, to kill him. Maybe Malfoy was simply thinking of saving his own arse and getting the last Horcrux destroyed was the only way to do it. Maybe… but all her maybes seem pointless and petty - too much Slytherin vs. Gryffindor enmity evident in the thought.
And she still doesn’t understand.
~*~
Ginny is walking towards her own room early in the morning, the sun only barely sending a couple of sunbeams over the horizon when she hears the faint noises behind the closed door to Malfoy’s room. The Order hasn’t put any guards up, probably sure that Malfoy wouldn’t be stupid enough to return to the crime scene. She tiptoes towards his door, holding her breath as she looks over her shoulder to make sure no one is following her.
This time Malfoy looks up as she opens the door, his eyes more exhausted than ever and an unconscious, deadly pale Neville dangling like a rag doll from his loosening grip. Without saying anything Ginny steps in, gently easing Neville off Malfoy’s arm, pulling him onto the bed with its still rumpled bedclothes, making sure he’s not seriously injured. When she turns again Malfoy is standing on shaking legs, leaning against the wall - not as per usual to keep his detached, cool look, but simply because he wouldn’t be able to stand at all if he didn’t have the support.
The wordless gaze they share stretches out over minutes and minutes of speaking; both remembering Harry and both knowing what the other’s role in his life was. It’s like a grimy blanket pulled out from underneath decades of old clothing, this rivalry between them. It’s never been quite as physical as it is now with the dust dancing in the clear, sunny air - the spots of grease evident against the sudden white-washed material. They both know that now they are even; they are equal.
“So, he’s dead now? Voldemort?” she demands to know, ignoring the pained expression on Malfoy’s face and his a-little-too bright eyes. He nods before looking away, biting his lip hard.
“He is.”
“Good.” She doesn’t say anything else, because what is there to say? Malfoy is not in the easiest of positions right now and tomorrow will be hell for all of them, but especially for him. Her eyes examine him, his head turned away and his body rigid from pain or held back tears; she can’t be sure which.
“We’ll tell them tomorrow,” Ginny suddenly finds herself saying, even though she hadn’t meant to bring him any sort of comfort. Malfoy meets her eyes, seeming almost lost.
Ginny sighs, looking down. She wishes that she didn’t know what Harry would want her to do, but she does. The idea comes to her in a whisper of a voice she of course recognises because it was the same voice that had been light with amusement as she and Harry had lain together under the starry sky that last night of July such a long time ago (“Happy birthday,” she had told him and he had smiled at her - that was the last time).
“Come.” Ginny walks past Malfoy, opening the door and casting a quick glance out into the hallway, checking to make sure they are alone. “I’ll let you into his room and make sure you won’t be disturbed.”
No one answers and she stops, turning around to look at Malfoy over her shoulder, waiting for him to decide what to do. His eyes bore into hers, reading her mind through Legilimency, and she doesn’t look away this time, because he is more than welcome to search for whatever it is he’s seeking. She even thinks she can understand some of the things he must be feeling right now, though - maybe she can’t when all comes down to it. Breaking their eye contact, he nods once before pushing himself off the wall, walking up to her slowly - every step apparently a fight against something rooted deep inside of him.
They walk the small distance from Malfoy’s room to Harry’s in silence. Ginny looks at Malfoy out the corner of her eye, asking herself what Harry saw in him that no one else did. Malfoy seems to be aware of her secret glances, but doesn’t respond to them in any way. He walks slowly, head held high, eyes determined and still so very bright. For one fleeting moment Ginny feels sorry for him - for the both of them, Harry and Malfoy. Truly sorry - nearing a feeling of pity, because no one should go through something like this. No one deserves to lose so much. No one.
He doesn’t thank her as he waits for her to undo the locking charms Hermione has placed on the door. Ginny didn’t expect him to. Instead, he stops in front of her, hand resting on the door handle and lips turning into something that could maybe have been a smile, once - if he hadn’t just watched the two strongest wizards in this millennium dying. One because of him, because of a curse uttered in his voice, and the other because of a boy no one ever really believed in. Except Harry of course, Ginny thinks, and she realises as Malfoy nods at her, accepting her offer of help, opening the door slowly, that he agrees… but then again, Harry did always put his faith in the strangest of things.
“He made me promise to do it,” Malfoy tells her, turning to close the door behind him. Their eyes meet, brown and grey and no green because they have both seen too many Killing Curses. “Not an Unbreakable Vow or anything - but I promised him and a Malfoy always keeps his promises.”
Ginny smiles at him, sadly and softly and not really a smile after all, and he finally closes the door with a gentle click. Nodding slowly, she stares at the rough surface of the closed door, tears burning just underneath the surface. She can always tell Harry goodbye later - right now it’s Malfoy’s turn because they didn’t part the way they should have parted. She turns around and walks back to Malfoy’s room, sitting with her back against the edge of his bed, listening to Neville’s even breathing.
She remembers the expression on Harry’s face when he and Malfoy kissed, the feeling that was an almost tangible force around him and she hopes, for his sake, that the almost-smile, lingering in the corner of his mouth when she found his body, deadly still, was because of that feeling.
~*~
underneath your dreamlit eyes
shades of sleep have driven you away
the moon is pale outside
and you are far from here.
~ Eurythmics, When Tomorrow Comes
~ animimares
Author: animimares
Beta: MuggleMomma, all remaining mistakes are my own.
Characters: Ginny, Harry, Draco and Neville.
Pairings: Harry/Draco, mentions of Ginny/Harry.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character death, angst and not explicit violence
Word Count: 10.455
Summary: It isn’t because Ginny is in love with Harry anymore - she is not. She is simply worried about him, because Malfoy’s sudden interest in him (anyway, she tells herself it’s sudden) can only mean that something is bound to go very, very wrong. Nevertheless, Ginny has no choice but to watch from the sideline as events prove her right and her world breaks into pieces all around her. What she did not consider before, however, was that maybe she is not the only one who has to let go.
Author’s Notes: This is written from Ginny’s point of view (as the summary might hint), but do not let it scare you away, because HD is the ship in focus. This story is very angsty and takes place during the last 24 hours of the war. Read and review, please.
_____
split up, they find each other
From the doorway to the old Scottish clan house that had once belonged to McGonagall but now houses the Order of the Phoenix, Ginny watches Harry sitting in the garden. All the windows and doors have been left open to catch any wind that might decide to drop by, and most of the permanent residents of the house have retreated to their private rooms, trying to escape the absurd heat of this first real summer’s day. Harry is the obvious exception, of course, sitting with his back against the giant chestnut tree, his shirt abandoned to a red heap in the green grass and his head tipped back to keep his face hidden in the merciful shadows of the crown.
Sighing, Ginny lets her eyes sweep over his face, searching for a contented smile or an expression of enjoyment, but finding only unreadable relaxation. She hadn’t really expected to find a smile; because she honestly can’t remember the last time she has seen Harry look truly happy. None of them have smiled much lately. They haven’t had much to smile about, really, since Fred and George had gotten killed months ago and Tonks had disappeared into thin air. Besides that, they don’t have time for smiling anymore; the days are a blurry rush of meetings and curse practicing and Horcrux research, no joke able to be squeezed in between the bricks of war.
She bites her lip, trying to remember when she last saw Harry smile - the memory comes quickly to the front of her mind, though she wishes it hadn’t, because it’s more recent than she had wanted for it to be. Pushing the unwanted pictures away again, she instead tries to recall when he has last smiled at her. It’s too long ago, and dreamlike pictures from their short time together at Hogwarts pass by like a train in her head - flash after flash of black and white memories.
A year has passed since the burial of Dumbledore and Harry hasn’t sought out her company much since then. He didn’t protest when she packed her things to go with him when Ron and Hermione brought him to the Burrow in the end of summer to start their search for Horcruxes, but neither did he ever verbally approve of it - only giving her a fleeting glance before nodding.
In the beginning she didn’t feel disappointed about his lack of interest in her because she had assured herself that it was for the best. He needed to focus on the war and the Horcruxes, on being the promised hero, the leader of the pack and on making sure they’d win. After they moved into McGonagall Mansion, however, she began feeling it would be safe to nurse their broken relationship. This thought resulted in her catching him alone in the living room one evening to talk things through. Before she could say a single word though, Draco Malfoy had appeared in the middle of the room; his eyes wide and his face red from blood, his clothes dirty. He looked like someone who had run through a forest, twigs whipping him in the face and mud saving him from breaking bones when he occasionally fell. He looked like a broken soldier - a discarded toy, mostly - and before she had any time to react he had fainted, falling to the floor with a dull thud, Harry by his side before she had time to blink.
After Malfoy’s sudden arrival, everything had changed too quickly for her to follow. Malfoy was put to trial before the entire Order, forced to sit through a long, unpitying interrogation about his motives for this sudden change of heart and about the Dark Mark which was nothing but a faint brush of black on his arm. Every of his answers had been short, to the point but no further, uttered in an emotionless, cold voice. Only when Moody had demanded that he tell them the last thing he remembered before fleeing did he refuse, snarling that it was private. Harry had stepped in, agreeing that it was none of their business and if Malfoy was for real he should be granted the chance to prove it. This settled matters, and Ginny had only been able to watch passively as Malfoy was given the only available bedroom left in the house.
The first months Harry had used his time making sure Malfoy knew his new responsibilities as a member of the Order. He had tested him in every way possible, dragging Malfoy along with him to all of his own secret missions, before finally (one morning at their usual strategy meeting over breakfast) he had poured him a cup of tea and the Order had heaved a sigh of relief. Malfoy had been approved; he was safe.
Ginny Weasley is not one for forgiving and forgetting - she’s the type who holds on to her petty anger and hatred as much as she does to her deep love and care for people.
She remembers her first year at Hogwarts; she remembers the Chamber of Secrets and her childish crush as well as her loneliness. She even remembers Tom Riddle, though she rarely thinks of him if she can avoid it. Above all of this, however, she remembers the diary and who gave it to her; who caused all the pain she was suffering that year. This, more than anything, is the reason why she’s now standing on the porch in front of the outer kitchen door, watching Harry as he for once lets his guard down. He has grown and matured so much since the war started that she barely recognises him - and it makes her want to rip apart everything that has come between them.
“Hi,” she greets him as she approaches, the three steps separating the porch from the lawn creaking under her shoes and the faint wind brushing a lock of her hair into her eyes. Harry opens one eye lazily to gaze at her, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. She looks over her shoulder to see if anybody’s watching them from the kitchen before sitting down next to him, the bark of the tree cool through her thin summer dress.
“Hello,” he answers, his movements languid as he cocks his head to watch her with a warm gaze. His glasses are slightly askew and tentatively she reaches her hand out to correct them. His eyes burn green at her as she does so. She feels herself blush slightly, the air around them exuding warm skin and sunshine - all the smells of summer. “It’s been a long time,” he continues his unfinished greeting and if she didn’t know him so well she would’ve though it a strange thing to say. They meet every day, they work closely together like all people in the Order do - but she knows that he’s referring to the time that has passed since they last talked face to face. It seems to be an eternity ago.
“I know.”
Her answer is too short and there is so much she wants to say, but the words slip from her mind before she can hold onto them. Instead, she makes the pause a full stop, waiting for him to take his cue, to make the first move.
They sit in silence for a while and she suddenly finds it impossible to talk to him when he doesn’t break the ice. What can she say? How to bring it up when it’s maybe not even any of her business? Shaking her head slightly, she almost smiles at herself. She knows Harry well - she has grown up with him, she has seen his development from a confused 11-year-old into what he is today. To be honest, she probably knows him better than most people - her early interest had bordered on an obsession. And she knows that frankness has always worked the best when it came to Harry. Blunt honesty, something that would take him by surprise. Only that way you could be sure to get the truth.
When she turns her attention back to him he has yet again closed his eyes, scratching mindlessly at his arm. She has never seen him be quite this unaware of himself before. The Harry she recalls from Hogwarts wouldn’t run around without his shirt on; he would be too self-conscious to do so, no matter how many people told him he looked good. Harry was never unattractive, she should be the first to admit it (neither was he handsome like Cedric Diggory had been, mind you), but he had pleasant features and a nice body. Maybe some of his charm was his awkwardness, she thinks idly - remembering the way she had waited for him to come around. It felt as if she had waited forever. Now with that familiar awkwardness gone, this… strange unawareness of himself seems fitting, if not directly striking.
“For how long have you been shagging Malfoy?”
The question does not make him jump like she had supposed it would. Instead he opens his eyes, blinking a couple of times against the bright sunlight before looking at her, his features blank in a scary replication of the mask Malfoy often wears; only his eyes show that she has hit bull’s eye, burning with a fire she hasn’t seen there for a very long time.
“For how long have you known?”
His question forces a slight flush to her neck, an unjustified feeling of guilt coiling in the pit of her stomach as she thinks about what she saw.
She looks away from his gaze that is penetrating her with an almost tangible force. It scares her somewhat, because his power has never been quite this evident to her. Before the war he was just Harry, but now he has become “Harry the Hero” to her - “Harry the Saviour, the Chosen One”. None of them are Harrys she considers to be real. They are just masks he wears to survive - when all comes down to it they have different ways of dealing with this, with killing and death being an unchangeable part of their everyday lives. She doubts anyone knows “just Harry” any longer and the knowledge that she is not the only one who can’t reach him fills her with an immature smugness.
Playing with a lock of her hair, her eyes search the garden as she tries to ignore the pictures quickly flashing in her head in some insane imitation of disco lights. War has taught her one important lesson: sometimes ignorance is much easier. Right now she wishes for things to be less complicated, for the images in her mind to go away and leave her in ignorant peace.
His hand is warm against her shoulder as he leans in closer, trying to catch her eyes. “I refuse to believe that you were simply guessing, Gin,” he tells her and she shrugs his hand off irritably, feeling both embarrassed and angry with him for not feeling the same, for not even having the decency to blush at her knowledge. For not… Ginny is angry about so many things these days, so many things that she has a hard time telling them apart.
As she snaps out her answer, her voice is more of a huff than she had intended it to be, but there’s nothing to do about it. She wants him to know that she doesn’t think it is okay. Not even remotely so.
“Don’t call me that!” She purses her lips, glaring at him. “And I have known since last night. I saw you in the library.”
She had wanted something to read; something that didn’t focus on violence or war or battle strategy or curses that could kill but weren’t illegal. Grabbing one of the candles floating around the doorway to the enormous McGonagall Library, she had found her way through the maze of bookshelves, fingers running lightly over the spines of ancient books which titles she had a hard time making out; faded as they were from time and dust.
A small sound, almost a sigh, on the other side of a high shelf with dictionaries had stopped her movement down a never-ending row. Listening carefully to figure out who besides her was up this late, she had pressed herself flush against the bookcase, quietening her breathing. Training came in handy now; Ginny had been one of the best in the Order at disguising herself and hiding. With Tonks gone, she was probably the most talented left.
“Potter. That’s stupid and you know it.”
It was Malfoy, his voice filled with a repressed emotion that could be anger or maybe something else. Unease? Ginny wasn’t quite sure; she had never heard Malfoy express anything other than disgust, contempt and rage. There was a ruffle of movement then (someone putting down a bag or a jacket) and suddenly Harry’s voice sounded almost right next to her; indicating that he was standing right on the other side, probably leaning against the same shelf as she.
Pushing a couple of dictionaries aside, she wondered if she would get to see one of the infamous Potter vs. Malfoy fights. Ron had told her that the two of them had had an enormous argument in the kitchen in front of the entire Order some weeks ago, ending up on the floor, punching and kicking at each other with vehemence.
“There’s no other way, Malfoy.” Harry was indeed standing just on the other side, Malfoy sitting on the edge of a small desk opposite of him, his face pale in the light of a couple of transfigured candles (judging from the smell of sandalwood these candles had once been book ends) . Ginny had looked from one to the other, trying to figure out when they would start yelling, her horrible curiosity also triggered by their hushed voices. Harry sighed. “Please tell me what else there is to do?”
“If you would just tell Granger, I’m sure we’d find another way,” Malfoy huffed, glaring at Harry with a scowl, his frustration clearly shining through. Ginny felt her heart skip a beat - this was no regular fight. What was it Harry had told Malfoy that he didn’t want to tell Hermione, which meant he hadn’t told Ron either? Ron was his best friend, after all, and Ginny had never known them to keep secrets from one another.
Harry made an irritated sound, crossing his arms over his chest in the gesture of defiance Ginny was so familiar with. “I don’t want to start that discussion again - she would panic if she knew and that’s the last thing we need right now. Besides that, she’ll just start asking questions and I really don’t want to have her analyzing this.”
Malfoy closed his eyes and ran a hand down over his face, quite clearly trying to keep himself from strangling Harry. For a moment Ginny felt sympathetic towards him - she had often felt the same way when Harry had started his hero-rants.
“Potter - you can’t ask that of me,” Malfoy wasn’t exactly begging, but there was now rather obviously desperation traceable in his voice. Ginny got to her toes to get a better look of him, the way his eyes were fixed on Harry and his fists clenched as he held on to the tabletop. The expression on his face was totally unknown to her; a mix of anger and… a strange kind of affectionate possessiveness. Harry’s shoulders slumped and Ginny turned her head just in time to see him run a hand through his hair; something he only did when he was feeling uncomfortable.
There was a moment of silence and then Harry took an uncertain step forward which made Malfoy look away with a furrow on his brow and a tensing of his shoulders. Ginny narrowed her eyes, something starting to dawn on her, though her mind couldn’t quite figure out the more concrete aspects of the realization.
“Don’t think I haven’t tried doing it myself, but I can’t… it doesn’t work,” Harry told Malfoy, and there was an apology evident in his voice. Malfoy’s head snapped back up and he was staring at Harry wide-eyed with his mouth slightly agape in shock.
“You’ve WHAT?” Malfoy stood up in a flash, the shelves shaking as he pushed Harry back against them with a surprising strength for his lithe build. Ginny didn’t move, suddenly realising she was now faced with the fight she’d been waiting for; except Malfoy wasn’t making ready to hit Harry - as a matter of fact none of them moved an inch. Holding her breath to be sure they wouldn’t hear her, she waited in agonising silence while the two boys stared at each other, Malfoy’s hands gripping Harry’s shoulder in a what seemed quite painful way.
“Potter - don’t tell me you’ve actually tried…” Malfoy paused, eyes boring into Harry’s as he shifted awkwardly, trying to get away from Malfoy’s hands, though he never made a move as to break their eye contact. Malfoy groaned as if this was all the answer he needed and leaned in closer (closer than what was strictly necessary, Ginny thought to herself). “Potter, you’re the stupidest, daftest and most foolish idiot I’ve ever met.”
Harry didn’t say anything to that, and Ginny’s eyes widened a little as she realised he was not going to reply. He had never taken crap from Malfoy before. She couldn’t recall a single time where he hadn’t stood up to the spoiled brat; yet this time he simply edged a little closer to Malfoy’s body, hands resting against his chest though he didn’t push him away. Balancing herself, hands grabbing on to the thick books so hard that her knuckles went white, she leaned closer to the small peephole she’d created. Looking for signs that would help her figure out what kept them silent, Ginny narrowed her eyes in suspicion. They were simply looking at each other, Harry’s lip twisting in a half smile (more of a smirk, really) and the air was almost crackling with an unspoken tension. Only seconds before Harry leaned in the last inch and pressed his lips to Malfoy’s, did Ginny recognise the feeling.
She stood flabbergasted as Malfoy’s hands let go of Harry’s shoulders, instead burying them in his hair in the exact same way as she had done all the times she and Harry had kissed. It took a minute for her to comprehend that she should probably look away by which time they had pressed against each other, mouths opening and the kiss growing in intensity. She didn’t look away, though. She stood frozen, staring as Harry bit Malfoy’s bottom lip, following the movement up with a soothing tongue stroke. There was a mix of gentleness and need that told her they were accustomed to this way of being together, that it wasn’t just a crazy idea of the moment or a result of too much unresolved, angry tension. It was… it was something they had had going on for a long time.
This realisation made her stumble backwards, almost crashing into a pile of books on the floor, telling herself as she turned to run that they wouldn’t notice anyway, because she had caught a brief glimpse of where Harry’s hand was heading.
Harry sighs, closing his eyes and running his hand through his hair, muttering inaudibly to himself (Ginny suspects that he’s cursing) before looking at her with a slightly worried look. “How much did you hear?” he asks and there’s something detached in his voice, as if he’s trying to stay neutral and trying to keep himself in control. The Harry she knew once wouldn’t have been able to, but this Harry manages just fine. Maybe his Gryffindor bravado has been subdued by Malfoy’s coldness, she finds herself thinking - though somewhere in the back of her mind she’s aware that it can just be yet another sign that he has grown up and started to fit into his role as the hero.
She bites her lip slightly. “About you not wanting to tell Hermione about your…” She doesn’t want to say relationship because that would make it real; that would make it true and it would be horrible, but she cannot find another word that seems fitting. “About you,” she finishes lamely and isn’t surprised to see Harry frowning as if he doesn’t quite understand what she’s trying to say. It takes some seconds before he figures out what she means and then he nods, looking somewhat relieved.
“I’m sorry you had to find out like that,” he tells her in a soft voice, leaning back against the tree again, his eyes never leaving her. Ginny feels the anger turn into something else, something much more hurtful because there is no real apology coming up, no “Ginny, I’m sorry I haven’t told you I like cock”. Looking away from him she tries to find head and tails of her feelings. It’s been a long time since she was really in love with Harry; all that’s left is a strange kind of jealousy, an overprotective feeling and a motherly instinct that tells her she has to keep him safe, both for his and her own sake.
“Nobody was meant to find out, really.”
Ginny knows his gaze is fixed on her as he says it, but she refuses to look back and meet his eyes. It’s his damn problem that they didn’t have the decency to at least find a room. As the anger returns slowly to her body, she finally turns back to him again, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest.
“You haven’t answered my question yet,” she accuses, not feeling like letting the matter drop. Why would he be with Malfoy in the first place? As far as she was concerned he had never taken an interest in boys - not like that - and even if he did like boys that way, he and Malfoy had always hated each other. At least, that was what she had thought - obviously, she was wrong.
“Does it matter?” he asks, and the tiny smile he had given her when she sat down what seems hours ago disappears, only to turn into a frustrated sigh with a somewhat miserable edge to it. “Even sure you want to know, Ginny?” His voice is sad and slightly sarcastic and it makes her want to grit her teeth in insolence, because he’s right - she isn’t sure if she wants to know, except she is and she wants answers.
“Just answer the question, Harry,” she tells him, spitting out his name as some kind of curse, the magic word that will cause him all the pain in the world - Crucio for dummies. If she wasn’t such a nice person, she would have used the Bat-Bogey Hex on him several minutes ago. Pursing her lips, awaiting his response while holding his gaze firmly in place, she tells herself whatever answer he’ll give her won’t hurt - but she knows it’s a lie. He shifts a little uncomfortably, reaching out for his shirt and she recognises some of old Harry “just Harry” in that movement and it almost makes her soften. Almost.
“It’s been going on since the attack in Diagon Alley, since Fred and George were killed. There was something going on before that - but that was just the first time we…” He tugs the shirt down over his head, taking the chance to look away from her, this time with a slight flush colouring his cheeks. He doesn’t continue the sentence, doesn’t finish it and she knows he was probably not going to say “the first time we were aware of it” or something equally innocent.
She buries her fingers in the green grass that has grown long during spring, staring at him. Why hadn’t she noticed? How couldn’t she? People acted differently around each other when they started having sex - she should have noticed. Maybe you did, a little voice in her mind tells her and it makes her angry because she had god damn well known Malfoy would be nothing but trouble.
“You’ve shagged for six months without telling anybody,” she concludes his silence and her hard intonation makes him finally raise his head again to send her a tense glance. She doesn’t care about the hurt she sees there or the way his lips start to form what could be an apology or an explanation. She doesn’t want his words. Is she really the only one who can figure out that Malfoy suddenly wanting to get in Harry’s pants means that there’s something awfully wrong? “You’ve been shagging Draco Malfoy for six months without telling any of us - Harry, what were you bloody thinking?”
She stands up, putting her hands on her hips, glaring at him. He only lets her have that advantage for a couple of seconds before getting to his feet himself, leaning casually against the trunk of the tree. Suddenly she has to look up to send him a glare and it doesn’t feel quite as satisfactory. She wonders, almost as an afterthought, if he feels the same way about Malfoy being taller than him.
“It’s not like it was something I… either of us had planned on,” he says slowly, his hands curling into fists. She hadn’t thought that he was ready to fight her over it, but on the other hand, what does she know about him anymore? “And it’s not like it matters. What difference does it make in the end?” There’s something poignant in his voice as he says it, something held back and aching in there and Ginny wonders if Malfoy has already done his fair share of damage.
“What if he were a spy and Voldemort used him to get to you?” she asks, wanting him to think things through for once. Besides her feminine pride being rather hurt by him choosing a guy over her (and a guy like Malfoy at that), she suddenly sees thousands of ways Malfoy could use Harry’s trust against them. “What if he chose to give shit about us in the end and went to Voldemort with all our secrets?” Her voice has grown shrill as she tries convincing him that it was careless of him, wanting for him to see it from her point of view, though she knows just by the cold look in his eyes that it’s a lost battle.
He pushes himself off the tree, stepping so close to her that the weak summer breeze makes her hair brush his neck. They stare at each other for some seconds, both stubborn and both angry with the other. Ginny’s lips are pressed together in a thin line as she considers slapping Harry, just for good measure.
“I trust Malfoy - that should really answer all of your what ifs,” he says, his voice chilly as he carefully forms every word just to get his point through. “He ended up here for a reason, you know. The chances of him turning back to Voldemort are about as big as Ron suddenly becoming a Death Eater.” In the back of her mind a ridiculous image of her brother with a Death Eater’s mask pops up and the absurdity of it only makes her feel even more cross. How dare Harry compare those two things: it’s not the same at all!
“What reason do you have to trust him, Harry? Does he really give that good head?” she snarls viciously, though she has no idea why she asks that because it’s stupid and she feels stupid saying it, especially as Harry pales, eyes growing wide before his pupils dilate from anger. She tries to make up for it by adding, “Don’t you remember how he behaved towards us at school? Don’t you remember that it was him who let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts - he caused Dumbledore’s death!” The last three statements are almost pleading, kind of panicked, because the crackling, tangible force of his fury frightens her so much so she has to step back from him.
“That’s bullshit, Ginny - we’ve all changed since Hogwarts. Look at yourself! Look at me! We’re not the same people we were back then; no one is.” His expression softens a little when he realises he’s been yelling. Out the corner of her eye Ginny sees someone move in the kitchen, but all her attention is focused on Harry and she knows she’ll lose this battle if she looks to the side to check who is watching them. The next sentence Harry utters is more persistent, a hoarse whisper though she has no problem catching any of the words.
“Voldemort killed Malfoy’s mom in front of him; he has no reason to turn back to that - besides that he’s promised…” He falls silent. Ginny forgets everything about their potential audience in the kitchen at Harry’s sudden halt, an expression of fear, almost shock, crossing his features.
They stand in silence, Harry not quite meeting her eyes. Ginny feels a sudden urge to hug him because she’s never seen him look this vulnerable before. Before her better half can protest, she steps up to him again, letting her arms encircle his waist and pressing herself against his body, trying to fall back into the role of not-loving-girlfriend, but loving almost-sister. He stands awkwardly stiff in her embrace for some seconds before softening to her touch and hugging her back, resting his chin on the top of her head.
“I’m just worried about you,” she tells him softly, not letting go. “If something happened… What would we do without you?” He stiffens again, and she repeats her sentence in her head, trying to find a reason for him to feel hesitant. He pushes lightly at her shoulders and she steps back unwillingly, looking up at him.
“You’ll survive,” he says in a harsh tone as if he’s trying to convince himself that it’s the truth. She frowns as he takes her hands, entwining their fingers like he used to do when they sat together in Gryffindor common room in the end of her fifth year and finally he smiles at her - just slightly. “I still care about you, you know,” he tells her and the words are only a little awkward, though not directly forced, as if he hasn’t said anything like it for a long time (and he probably hasn’t, she suddenly realises). “It’s different with Malfoy. We…” He’s about to continue, but from the doorway someone coughs a bit too politely for it to be anything but an insult. Ginny knows who it is long before she turns her head to look.
Malfoy is indeed standing in the doorway, leaning arrogantly against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest and one eyebrow raised as his gaze wanders between Harry and Ginny. Harry roles his eyes before pulling Ginny into another hug that takes her completely by surprise.
“Didn’t want to part on bad terms,” he whispers in her ear before stepping back and turning towards Malfoy with a similar expression of mock surprise. His words leave Ginny confused as her gaze follows Harry walking up to the door, stopping in front of Malfoy on the porch. They watch each other for a moment, as if they’re speaking without using any words. Ginny suddenly knows that there’s something in the air, some kind of foreboding - something she ought to stop up and take a closer look at. Harry gives her one last glance over his shoulder, sending her a reassuring smile before stepping inside the house and out of sight. Malfoy doesn’t move, but his gaze challenges Ginny’s and she returns the favour by sending him her most hateful glare, feeling for all in the world like a bitch trying desperately to mark her territory. Malfoy raises an eyebrow at her, smirking contemptuously before wordlessly turning on his heel and following Harry inside the house.
Ginny sits back down, leaning heavily against the tree. She can feel someone watching her and looking up, she meets Neville’s gaze through the kitchen window. He smiles at her nervously and she responds with a smile of her own, wondering if it was him or Malfoy she could feel watching before.
Neville doesn’t come out to join her: instead, he disappears in the same manner as Harry and Malfoy had, and when Ginny looks back upon this moment later on, she knows she should have seen it coming. She should have figured it out already then - not because she didn’t have the inkling, but she just didn’t dig deeper into the question.
Sometimes she still wonders why.
~*~
At suppertime three chairs are left empty at the table and Ginny knows right away that something is wrong… horribly, terribly wrong. Hermione huffs and is about to get up, but Ginny gets to her feet first, stammering out some excuse to go look for Harry as she almost stumbles up the stairs to his room.
His door has been left ajar, but no stripe of light falls over the hallway floor. She stands for some seconds with her hand pressed flat against the cool wood, eyes closed as she tries to calm down her heart. She’s simply exaggerating, she must be, because nothing’s wrong, Harry’s fine - nothing’s wrong. She mutters this to herself over and over again until it has become a mantra and she can find the strength to push the door open. Just a tiny push, enough for her to get a full view of the room. Just enough for her to be sure Harry is simply sitting on his bed, reading or writing a letter or…
She screams.
Harry’s lying on his back in the middle of the room, the light from the setting sun falling in blood red streams over his face, his hair as unruly as ever. His features are peaceful and there’s a little smile waiting for its turn to be smiled in the corner of his mouth. His eyes are closed and Ginny can almost convince herself he’s just asleep by the way his hand is resting on his stomach and his head is turned a little to the side. He looks more peaceful, more at ease than she has seen him in a very long time. Stepping into the room and falling to her knees beside his body, she stares at him in search for any sign of life - though she already knows she’ll find none.
“Harry,” she whispers, edging closer, hands floating in the air a few inches over his chest where his Gryffindor red shirt is rumpled as if someone caught it in a fist before he could fall backwards. His lips are only slightly parted, caught in an eternal exhale. She is afraid to touch him; she’s afraid he’ll be cold. Harry was never cold, he was always warm from the fire burning within him and she doesn’t want to ruin that image of him, she doesn’t want to experience him any other way so her hands fall to her lap instead of reaching out to him.
She doesn’t pay attention as the rest of the Order bursts through the door, wands drawn, alerted by her cry which to her seems to have been uttered years ago. There is a second of deafening silence before their minds make a link between Harry on the floor and Ginny on her knees beside him and her scream - but then the silence in the room is disturbed by yelling and cursing and Hermione’s never-ending sobbing. Ginny feels as if she’s caught in some kind of haze as she looks around the room, trying to make some meaning of the maze of thoughts running amok in her head.
“The Killing Curse…” someone concludes, but Ginny can’t be bothered to figure out who. Her eyes come to a halt on the wand lying innocently in the shadows underneath Harry’s bed, wandtip pointing towards her in some bizarre game of Spin the Bottle. It isn’t Harry’s wand, because she knows Harry’s wand almost as well as she knows her own. This wand is longer than Harry’s and made of redwood, pale and slender like its owner.
No one notices as she picks up Malfoy’s wand from the floor and pushes and shoves her way towards the door. She runs down the hallway, the carpet swallowing up the sound of her bare feet against the floor and her mind a red fog of anger and grief (oh, so much grief), though she hasn’t quite realised exactly what the not-really-sleeping Harry lying on the floor back in his room means yet. She only knows that Malfoy has caused it and that it is unfair, because… because somehow Harry loved him and she’s going to make him pay before he can run anywhere. If she’s lucky she can maybe even make him regret the day he was born.
Malfoy’s room is only a few doors away from Harry’s and not before stopping in front of it does she realise how convenient that must have been for them. Again, she finds herself wondering why she hadn’t seen the signs, why she hadn’t noticed anything - but she doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought because there’re sounds coming from the other side of the door. Hushed sounds, as if someone’s trying to do a lot of things at once; hurrying and trying not to panic at the same time.
She clutches Malfoy’s wand in her hand, suddenly aware that this is the wand that killed Harry, the one that took him away from her. Tasting bile in the back of her throat, she feels like dropping the rather beautiful piece of wood and vomiting until her heart is gone and will stop hurting forever. She does neither: instead, she opens the door as quietly as she can, closing it slowly behind her as she steps in.
Malfoy doesn’t look up from where he’s examining a gigantic map spread out on his bed and she thinks he hasn’t heard her, but then he starts speaking in an irritated voice - seemingly expecting someone else.
“How stupid can you be anyway? Forgetting your wand of all things - we really don’t have time for this; the Dark Lord will only be in the cave for a couple of hou…” He looks up, eyes dark but hollow as if he, too, is simply acting on instinct right now - just like Ginny is. He stops dead as he eyes her, his entire body freezing and his words dying on his lips. Ginny doubts that she can move herself, though her body disagrees by throwing his tainted, tainted wand to the floor in front of his feet. Malfoy only spares it a single glance before looking up at her again, this time with a shattered glint in his eyes, the emotionless surface not at all perfect any longer.
“You shouldn’t be one to talk about forgotten wands, Malfoy,” she tells him with a hiss, suddenly feeling her body shaking wildly, her heartbeat fast and her blood roaring in her ears. “It seems you forgot yours, too.”
His jaw is clenched and his hands are gripping the wrinkled parchment convulsively in a way that reminds Ginny of the way he was holding on to Harry’s shoulders just before they kissed. The abhorrence boils hot within her and when he doesn’t answer her something finally snaps. How can he just stand there and not say anything? How can he not explain - how can he live with himself after this? After…
With a snarl that represents the one of a wild animal she lunges at him, knocking into him almost head first making them both tumble over on top of the map with little, black dots moving about and green lines symbolizing trees and forests and blue lines showing where there’s water. She claws at him as he crashes backwards into the wall, tears from nowhere running down her cheeks. She doesn’t even see him properly as she throws punches at him, blindly aiming for places she is certain will hurt. All the same he’s still stronger than her and she only gets to slap him twice (once on each cheek) before he has her pressed up against the wall, hands crushing her upper arms against the cold stone.
In silence they stare at each other, both breathing heavily and Ginny twisting in his grip. His fingers dig in painfully and the tears won’t stop running as she thinks about how those fingers got to have Harry, only to throw him away.
She spits in his face and suddenly his eyes don’t seem quite so dead anymore - instead he narrows them so there’re only silver grey slits left and his mouth curls in disgust.
“You killed him, Malfoy,” she tells him in a voice that isn’t her own, shrill and tearful as it is. His fingers bore deeper into her shoulders and he looks away, closing his eyes as if he can’t even stand looking at her. It makes her feel furious, to realise that he’s so much of a coward that he can’t even face the consequences of his own actions. “He trusted you,” she then yells, kicking at him though he manages to pull back from her without being hit, stumbling off the bed, only stopping when he’s at a safe distance at the opposite end of the room. She doesn’t move, instead she stares at him from where he has left her, blinking angrily to keep the next stream of hysterical tears at bay.
“He trusted you, and you killed him!” The words are like blazers against her tongue, painful to wrap her lips around, cutting into her as she pronounces them with a slow-building rage dripping from ever letter. She gets to her knees, fingers gripping the blanket so hard she can feel her nails cut into her palm through the thick material.
Malfoy opens his mouth as to say something, but closes it again before reaching up to wipe her saliva off his cheek. “I don’t owe you any explanations,” he finally says, bending down to pick up his wand, though he pockets it quickly, as if the tree would burn him, like some kind of strong acid in its solid form.
She doesn’t care that he won’t answer her. She just wants him to know how much she hates him for what he’s done, for proving her right… for proving that she was right about him and Harry was wrong and now… now Harry’s dead.
“Was it some kind of disgusting turn-on for you?” she asks slowly, disgust pouring over him with every word. Ginny crawls over the bed on all fours, her lips trembling as she stops at the edge, sitting up to be on eyelevel with Malfoy. He pales at her words, his skin seeming ghostly, translucent white, his eyes widening just a little and his hands curling into useless fists at his sides.
“Did it turn you on to know that in the end you could simply kill him off while he thought it actually meant something to you?” A memory of one of the secret snogs between Harry and herself enters her mind and she remembers the careful way he would touch her. She suddenly wonders if that was what Malfoy discarded as some kind of garbage, that nearly awed look in green eyes and soft, careful fingertips. The thought fills her with a deep, deep loathing. Harry deserved so much more than that… to think that Malfoy had simply used him in such a way… She stands up, walking up close to him. He doesn’t even try to step back from her, but when she meets his eyes there is a rebellious fire burning in there, a pride that she hates more than anything. Pureblood pride, not anything she ever knew about.
She wants to crush him between two fingers like she would a tiny bug; she hates him for destroying everything - everything from ending the war in Voldemort’s advantage to taking Harry away from her and offering him something she never knew he wanted. Her lips turn upwards in an almost manic smile as she reaches one hand out to brush some non-existent dust off his shoulder, speaking softly:
“Did it turn you on to know that he loved you all along and you could simply crush that lov…”
She doesn’t get further than that, because Malfoy has grabbed hold of her arm, twisting it around, pushing her hard back against the bed.
“Shut up,” he snarls at her, “and don’t even try to speak of something you know absolutely nothing about, Weasley.” She can feel how uncontrollably he trembles, so close are they standing, the bed pressing against the hollow of her knees. She tries not to break down in angry sobbing. Jabbing him furiously in the chest with her elbow she gets him to step back enough for her to get free of his grip.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” she yells at him and his mouth curves in a cruel smirk, his eyes becoming empty, only a hint of scorn showing. “Don’t you think I know about what happened? Don’t you think I know it was your plan all along? You’re not any better than your pathetic father, Malfoy! You never were and you never will be, but Harry believed in you and you let him down!” Her voice breaks and she hides her face in her hands, not caring if he’s going to kill her.
Nothing happens, however, and she is left to stand in the brownish darkness of her palms and the silence of her own and his uneven breathing.
When she finally looks up, he has leaned back against the wall, something unreadable in the expression on his face. She wonders if Harry would have been able to tell how he was feeling. For some reason it wouldn’t surprise her if he could.
“Everything is not always as it seems,” Malfoy says casually, not looking at her; they could as well be discussing the weather. He’s about to say more but the door opens then to reveal a panting Neville. Malfoy’s lips tighten up to a thin line and he pushes the door closed quickly after Neville has entered, turning to him with a cold, dull look in his eyes.
“You do realise they’ll come looking for us before long, Longbottom - where had you put your wand, anyway, the North Pole?”
Malfoy’s anxious about something; Ginny can sense it in the mechanical way he makes everything ready, the map becoming blank under his hands after he has searched it for some sign only he knows of. Suddenly she realises that Neville is still there and nothing makes sense. What is Neville doing with Malfoy? Malfoy has just killed Harry, what is Neville doing here - acting as if they are still on the same side?
A terrible thought claws its way to her heart and she steps in in front of him, staring at him with a begging face. “Neville, please tell me you have nothing to do with this!”
Neville looks from Ginny to Malfoy with a questioning look. Malfoy doesn’t meet his eyes but makes sure that fastening his cloak takes all of his attention. Ginny’s gaze wanders from one to the other, eyes wide and tears dry on her cheeks. She could believe that Malfoy of all people… but… Neville? Neville betraying Harry is a ridiculous thought, so ridiculous it could have made her giggle, hadn’t she been standing in this room, watching as they seemed to make ready to escape. Her worst enemy and one of her best friends. It’s almost as hurtful as watching Harry and Malfoy kiss had been.
“You haven’t told her?” Neville asks of Malfoy who only shrugs, sitting down on the bed with a blank mask - though his skin is still more pale than usual and his eyes remain oddly unfocused.
“He said we should tell as few as possible,” Malfoy answers, his voice as emotionless as his face and Ginny tries to figure out if he does it because he doesn’t care or… because he cares too much. For the first time ever she questions her own conclusion, her own judgment of him.
Neville sighs, clearly choosing that they don’t have time to discuss what whomever they are talking about meant with that. He turns back to Ginny, eyes sad and apologising - Ginny realises that even though this is Neville, he has changed too, and it scares her. Of all the things she had always put her faith in Neville, who had always been one of the most unwavering. She had thought he would never change, and yet here he is - reminding her how much they’d all been through this last year and even this past hour. The memory of Harry’s not-quite smile makes her close her eyes momentarily.
“We don’t have much time for explaining, but I think you should know… I think Harry would have wanted you to know,” he starts, stuttering in the same way he usually does when he’s nervous - only this time he doesn’t stop up and blush, but continues quickly, seemingly scared that she’ll interrupt him now he’s finally begun. Ginny was never a patient person, but something in his eyes makes her close her mouth, waiting for whatever explanation he can give. Biting his lip, he shakes his head slightly as if in wonder, “The last Horcrux wasn’t the snake. Harry killed the snake weeks ago and nothing happened.”
Ginny’s heartbeat echoes in her head. Thump, thump, thump. Malfoy gets to his feet, turning his back on them as if he doesn’t want to listen to Neville’s words, his shoulders tense. He seems impatient and Ginny, through the fog of whats clouding her mind, finds herself questioning what it is they have to do that leaves them in such a hurry.
“But… why didn’t he tell us then? He would have told us if that was the case, wouldn’t he?” she asks undecidedly when Neville pauses. Suddenly what was black and white mere minutes before is now all the colours of the rainbow, confusing her. It doesn’t make any sense (she doesn’t want it to make sense; no, she wants to scream and kick and accuse Malfoy of lying, wants to convince Neville that Malfoy’s a spy) - and yet… if she thinks about it, it fits. Something clicks into place inside her at his words, something that has been nothing but a bunch of glass shards ever since Harry walked into the house this afternoon. She has a vague idea about how it’ll sound, already before Neville’s lips part for the answer.
“Because the last Horcrux was him,” he says and Ginny feels herself shiver violently. She does not want to listen to this; it’s too evil: it’s too unfair. It has to be Malfoy’s excuse for killing him; Neville has been tricked into believing it, because it simply can’t be true. It’s too hurtful.
“Harry was it, he has been all along. Ever since Vol…” Neville still stammers the name out, never really having conquered his fear of the hated word. “Ever since Voldemort tried to kill him when he was a baby. That’s why he was a Parselmouth, that’s why he was nearly sorted into Slytherin and that’s why they had such a close connection.”
Ginny stops dead, an image from a long-forgotten nightmare entering her mind.
Tom Riddle standing in front of Harry far, far beneath the hallways of Hogwarts; the two boys looking too alike for comfort.
Malfoy turns around, glaring at her as if he despises the fact that she has a tough time comprehending Neville’s explanation. There’s a hard line to the curve of his mouth, though his eyes have become just as hollow as they were when Ginny first walked into the room.
“The idiot tried killing himself,” he continues Neville’s story, clearly thinking it is taking too much time. “But he couldn’t make his wand work on himself - like he couldn’t make it work against the Dark Lord’s. The wand core wouldn’t work against the part of the Dark Lord’s soul in him; the part of him that drew the wand to him in the first place.” Malfoy’s lips twist in disgust and Ginny is suddenly aware that Malfoy must have known about it - this, Harry being a Horcrux - when he and Harry had met in the library.
She thinks about a blurred, blood red wall and the magical sentences in her first diary ever; she thinks about soothing, written words in a flourished handwriting, she thinks about “Tom, you’re the only friend I have”. The thought makes something turn inside her, makes her feel sick to her stomach.
“So you killed him…” she whispers, more to herself than to them, but Malfoy catches her words and nods - two angry red spots appearing on his cheeks though he says nothing; nothing else but his slight flush showing his anger.
Neville makes an apologising sound and both Ginny and Malfoy look up at him.
“We have to go now, Malfoy,” he says and Malfoy steps up to him unceremoniously, grabbing hold of his arm - clearly rather eager to get to the next part of their plan; whatever it involves of details. Ginny sits down on the edge of Malfoy’s bed, watching them as Malfoy finds his wand - their movements indicating that they are making ready to Apperate.
She doesn’t ask where they’re going, though the part of her Gryffindor personality that wants to be a part of the battle (the fight to finish what Harry started) begs her to do so. The puzzle inside her makes sense, even though some pieces are still missing. Malfoy killed Harry because Harry was the last Horcrux and now Neville, Neville who was the other boy the Prophecy could have been talking about, is going to finish off Voldemort. It’s both incredibly simple and completely irrational in her mind. She looks up in time to meet Malfoy’s eyes as he turns on the spot, Neville hanging on to him desperately. Only after they have disappeared does Ginny understand the emotion Malfoy was trying to hide all along.
Remorse.
~*~
The night passes by, hour by hour, minute by minute and second by second. The Order locks the door to Harry’s room after they’ve placed him on the bed, waiting for some kind of sign to tell them that Voldemort knows. Hermione and Ron have left to spread the news to friends and family. Harry Potter is dead, killed by his own comrade, Draco Malfoy. The rest of the Order sits in some kind of frozen silence in the kitchen and Ginny tries to imagine what they must be feeling, believing all hope to be dead along with the fallen hero.
She doesn’t know what to think or feel anymore. With the anger and hatred for Malfoy ebbing out, she feels nothing but emptiness. She feels lonely and crushed, because Harry isn’t there anymore. All her hopes and dreams have been centred around him for so long, and now he isn’t there anymore. She’ll never see him again; she’ll never have the chance to tell him all the things she now feels she should have said. Suddenly Harry’s last words make sense - he had meant it quite literally. He didn’t want them to part on bad terms; because he already knew he’d be leaving. For good. Forever.
Among all the things that suddenly make sense, though, one question remains.
As she draws mindlessly with her finger on the tabletop of the wooden table in the kitchen she wonders why Malfoy agreed to it. She wonders if he really didn’t have some secret agenda that neither Harry nor Neville knew about - because she can’t get it to make sense in her head. She would never have been able to… do it, to kill him. Maybe Malfoy was simply thinking of saving his own arse and getting the last Horcrux destroyed was the only way to do it. Maybe… but all her maybes seem pointless and petty - too much Slytherin vs. Gryffindor enmity evident in the thought.
And she still doesn’t understand.
~*~
Ginny is walking towards her own room early in the morning, the sun only barely sending a couple of sunbeams over the horizon when she hears the faint noises behind the closed door to Malfoy’s room. The Order hasn’t put any guards up, probably sure that Malfoy wouldn’t be stupid enough to return to the crime scene. She tiptoes towards his door, holding her breath as she looks over her shoulder to make sure no one is following her.
This time Malfoy looks up as she opens the door, his eyes more exhausted than ever and an unconscious, deadly pale Neville dangling like a rag doll from his loosening grip. Without saying anything Ginny steps in, gently easing Neville off Malfoy’s arm, pulling him onto the bed with its still rumpled bedclothes, making sure he’s not seriously injured. When she turns again Malfoy is standing on shaking legs, leaning against the wall - not as per usual to keep his detached, cool look, but simply because he wouldn’t be able to stand at all if he didn’t have the support.
The wordless gaze they share stretches out over minutes and minutes of speaking; both remembering Harry and both knowing what the other’s role in his life was. It’s like a grimy blanket pulled out from underneath decades of old clothing, this rivalry between them. It’s never been quite as physical as it is now with the dust dancing in the clear, sunny air - the spots of grease evident against the sudden white-washed material. They both know that now they are even; they are equal.
“So, he’s dead now? Voldemort?” she demands to know, ignoring the pained expression on Malfoy’s face and his a-little-too bright eyes. He nods before looking away, biting his lip hard.
“He is.”
“Good.” She doesn’t say anything else, because what is there to say? Malfoy is not in the easiest of positions right now and tomorrow will be hell for all of them, but especially for him. Her eyes examine him, his head turned away and his body rigid from pain or held back tears; she can’t be sure which.
“We’ll tell them tomorrow,” Ginny suddenly finds herself saying, even though she hadn’t meant to bring him any sort of comfort. Malfoy meets her eyes, seeming almost lost.
Ginny sighs, looking down. She wishes that she didn’t know what Harry would want her to do, but she does. The idea comes to her in a whisper of a voice she of course recognises because it was the same voice that had been light with amusement as she and Harry had lain together under the starry sky that last night of July such a long time ago (“Happy birthday,” she had told him and he had smiled at her - that was the last time).
“Come.” Ginny walks past Malfoy, opening the door and casting a quick glance out into the hallway, checking to make sure they are alone. “I’ll let you into his room and make sure you won’t be disturbed.”
No one answers and she stops, turning around to look at Malfoy over her shoulder, waiting for him to decide what to do. His eyes bore into hers, reading her mind through Legilimency, and she doesn’t look away this time, because he is more than welcome to search for whatever it is he’s seeking. She even thinks she can understand some of the things he must be feeling right now, though - maybe she can’t when all comes down to it. Breaking their eye contact, he nods once before pushing himself off the wall, walking up to her slowly - every step apparently a fight against something rooted deep inside of him.
They walk the small distance from Malfoy’s room to Harry’s in silence. Ginny looks at Malfoy out the corner of her eye, asking herself what Harry saw in him that no one else did. Malfoy seems to be aware of her secret glances, but doesn’t respond to them in any way. He walks slowly, head held high, eyes determined and still so very bright. For one fleeting moment Ginny feels sorry for him - for the both of them, Harry and Malfoy. Truly sorry - nearing a feeling of pity, because no one should go through something like this. No one deserves to lose so much. No one.
He doesn’t thank her as he waits for her to undo the locking charms Hermione has placed on the door. Ginny didn’t expect him to. Instead, he stops in front of her, hand resting on the door handle and lips turning into something that could maybe have been a smile, once - if he hadn’t just watched the two strongest wizards in this millennium dying. One because of him, because of a curse uttered in his voice, and the other because of a boy no one ever really believed in. Except Harry of course, Ginny thinks, and she realises as Malfoy nods at her, accepting her offer of help, opening the door slowly, that he agrees… but then again, Harry did always put his faith in the strangest of things.
“He made me promise to do it,” Malfoy tells her, turning to close the door behind him. Their eyes meet, brown and grey and no green because they have both seen too many Killing Curses. “Not an Unbreakable Vow or anything - but I promised him and a Malfoy always keeps his promises.”
Ginny smiles at him, sadly and softly and not really a smile after all, and he finally closes the door with a gentle click. Nodding slowly, she stares at the rough surface of the closed door, tears burning just underneath the surface. She can always tell Harry goodbye later - right now it’s Malfoy’s turn because they didn’t part the way they should have parted. She turns around and walks back to Malfoy’s room, sitting with her back against the edge of his bed, listening to Neville’s even breathing.
She remembers the expression on Harry’s face when he and Malfoy kissed, the feeling that was an almost tangible force around him and she hopes, for his sake, that the almost-smile, lingering in the corner of his mouth when she found his body, deadly still, was because of that feeling.
~*~
underneath your dreamlit eyes
shades of sleep have driven you away
the moon is pale outside
and you are far from here.
~ Eurythmics, When Tomorrow Comes
~ animimares