Archive of Our Own ^beta

I.

In the wee hours of February 14^th, 2000, the blue-gray sky of dawn was just beginning to lighten the dark of night.

Ginny Weasley traced one small finger across the chest inches from her face, and she pressed first her lips, then her cheek to the firm flesh, listening to the reassuring thudding of the gloriously, oh so gloriously alive heart beneath.

Harry Potter stirred slightly. “Awake already?”

Ginny shook her head, wild red hair rustling across his shoulder. “Not really. M’gonna go back to sleep.”

“They’ll be missing you at the Burrow if you stay much longer,” said Harry more than a little ruefully. “Will you Apparate back, or risk the Floo?”

It wasn’t a dismissal; he’d like nothing more than for her to stay longer here at Grimmauld Place with him, she knew. But Arthur and Molly Weasley were old-fashioned parents, and Ginny was still nominally pure, unsullied, living under their roof like a good little girl. Ginny snorted lightly; after the Sunday match yesterday – the first League game of the year – they had celebrated with a dinner date, and then done quite a bit of sullying last night. It was a habit that was taking on something of a tradition, ever since Ginny had started playing for the Holyhead Harpies Quidditch Team.

Ginny nuzzled her head into Harry’s side and twined a lazy leg around him, wriggling comfortably as Harry rolled a little and wrapped his arms around her, the fingers of one hand carding gently through her long bed-mussed locks. The warmth of his body was like a hearth-fire on a bitter winter night, an all-enveloping blanket of safety, acceptance and love – a sanctuary she never ever wanted to leave. “Five more minutesswfzh...”

“Okay.” She didn’t have to see the grin, he could hear it in his voice.

Thirty minutes later, the sky was dangerously blue, and Harry checked his watch as he scrambled eggs and toasted breakfast muffins. Ginny slowly woke up at the kitchen table over a large mug of warm milk, two sugars, and a splash of tea. Just the way she liked it.

“It’s Valentine’s Day. Are you sure Gwenog won’t let you off for dinner?”

“A Monday’s a Monday to that madwoman,” shrugged Ginny. “You know how it is.”

Harry nodded. Oh, he knew. The Auror Office was even more demanding than Gwenog Jones on his time, on their time. Extra practice was onerous but at least usually came with a week’s warning; when evil wizards cooked up Dark magic or terrorised Muggles, it could happen at any time, and Harry had to jump up and respond, holidays, family occasions, and girlfriend notwithstanding.

A couple made up of a professional Quidditch player and an Auror; it was hard work finding time together. But then… there were perfect moments like these in between the long days apart, and it almost made up for everything else.

Almost.

Ginny ate one eggy sandwich in four huge bites before Harry was halfway through his first, and reached for another. “I’m going to be really busy the next three weeks,” she said apologetically. “Gwenog’s pushing us hard, especially those of us on the Second Seven. And I’ve just been promoted, I need to do really well to show I’m committed, and I’ll have to spend mealtimes and a good chunk of overtime with the team as well. There’s going to be hardly any personal time for anyone...”

“Will I still see you weekends at the Burrow?” Time shared with the rest of the family and under Mum’s supervision wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing.

“Yes,” said Ginny, leaving the but not otherwise unsaid.

Harry shrugged, hiding his disappointment well. “Things are picking up at the Office too, anyway,” he said. “Something big is brewing.” He didn’t elaborate, and Ginny didn’t ask for details. If it was important that she should know, she knew he’d tell her. In Harry, she trusted. “I’ll try to drop by the Burrow some nights, but...” He grimaced.

Ginny leaned over and kissed him softly on the downturned corner of his mouth. “We’ll make it work.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Hand in hand, he walked her to the doorstep of Grimmauld Place, from which she would Apparate to the Burrow’s back garden and climb into bed to pretend she had been there all night. Every step, Ginny could feel the heat of his nearness receding, the distance between them growing, the shutters going up. On the front step the chill winter morning wind cut through them, seemingly blowing the last of their connection away.

But she turned, and there was Harry,her Harry, smiling warmly at her and kissing her goodbye. Until we’re together again, said his smile. Reassured, Ginny let go, and Apparated.

* * *

March raced by in a whirl of matches and training.

Ginny plunged herself headlong into the sweet hurly-burly of life, enjoying every hectic second of it. Things happened so fast she could barely remember what she did two weeks ago without checking her diary, and it was all fun fun fun.

The first half of the British and Irish Quidditch League season began in February, lasted four months, then took a two-month ‘mid-season break’ for the summer, during which some teams competed in European tournaments and the top players in the World Cup. The second set of fixtures were played from August to November. This was Ginny’s first year on the Second Seven, just promoted up from the raw, untried pool of hopefuls collectively named ‘the Reserves’; and the first year she would shoulder real responsibility for the team’s match performance.

Counting League games and ‘friendlies’ together, Ginny played profes s ionally at least once a week. But her work was only half on the Quidditch pitch, the other half was off it. There was training and practice ; workouts, techniques, formations and plays. Typically she got home to the Burrow at nine o’clock at night, often later, and was too tired to do more than take a shower and flop down on the sofa. Half the nights she didn’t make it to her room, and slept right there on the sofa till morning.

The pace was even more frenetic for Harry. The Auror Office was still short-handed after the war. His work day began at seven and often ended fifteen, sixteen, even twenty hours later. There was constant training for him too, in magical investigative techniques and to keep physically fit to duel Dark wizards. But a lot of his time was spent interviewing witnesses, collecting evidence, putting the pieces together and coming up with a solution to a puzzle often involving several peoples’ lives at stake. That sort of thing never ran according to a schedule. Try the best he could, Harry didn’t always make it to Ginny’s games.

But when she scanned the Top Box and saw that distinctive mess-and-glasses-topped head, and then partway through the match Gwenog gave her the alert to sub in, and she streaked out of the Player’s Tunnel – oh the fireworks that burst inside her then! Ginny wriggled all over on her Firebolt Premier and couldn’t stop grinning a big old watermelon-sized grin. And it was no coincidence that that was when she played her best – for the Cup and for the Team and for herself, but also for the watching Boy in the stands...

“Well that’s that,” said ‘Tabby’ Lewis, walking out of the last post-game interview, “first round of drinks on me, ladies!” and everyone cheered.

“You girls go on ahead,” said Ginny. “I’ve, uh... someone’s, y’know...”

Mumbling excuses to her grinning team-mates, she slipped out a side-door with only a few catcalls in her wake – they knew the form by now. Weasley always skived off the post-victory piss-ups when her famous boyfriend was in town.

And then there he was, waiting just inside the stadium’s ‘Backstage’, standing tall and proud and beaming.

Ginny fairly jumped into his arms, squealing “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go now! ” as he Apparated.

They just about made it past the front door of Grimmauld Place. Then her mouth was on his, her hands ripping off his jacket and shirt in a spray of buttons. They sank down on the floor of the hall, fighting to undress each other while savouring their first kiss in weeks, and it was too long to wait to take everything off, so Ginny just shimmied out of her flying trousers and knickers as she unbuttoned Harry’s jeans and slid him out. She aimed, and slid down on him with a long, low moan. Together and one again at last, at long last.

Not that they lasted long, either of them. She had missed this too long, was much too impatient, and drove hard, slammed Harry down, took his thrusts and gave it back with ample interest. Harry slid one hand up her jersey and into her sports bra, warm fingers and thumb stroking chilled skin stiffened and sensitised by long hours of wintry flight and lone anticipation; then he grunted, mumbled something barely intelligible and squeezed her close, other arm wrapping around her shoulders and pulling tight; and it was the familiar heat around and inside her and Harry’s final, urgent rapid-fire strokes that sent Ginny steadily up the peak and then over the edge as well with a guttural, teeth-gritting “Fuckkk...”

Gasping for air, every muscle trembling, Ginny rested her forehead on his and stared into those mesmerising eyes, themselves dilated wide and flickering with mad love, and managed a small exhausted smirk.

“That you, Harr... oh for Merlin’s sake!”

Startled, Ginny’s natural instinct was to leap up, but Harry had just a little more presence of mind; he squashed her hard against him and held on tight, betting that the outraged Ron Weasley would glimpse less that way. Craning her head back, Ginny glanced up; Ron ranted incoherently and gesticulated wildly with his back turned, while just behind him, Hermione had the heels of her hands pressed firmly over her eyes.

“First the kitchen, now the hallway – my own sister – no common bloody decency...!”

Her face afire all the way to the tips of her ears, Ginny quickly tugged her shirt down and scurried back into her trousers, grinning sheepishly at Harry as he pulled up his own, apologising all the while to his house-mate, his best friend, her brother: “Sorry mate, got carried away, no idea, won’t happen again...”

“That’s what you said the last time! Dammit, Harry, we made an agreement, with rules and all... Hermione, tell them!”

“Um... are we seeing you for dinner?” squeaked Hermione, her hands still over her eyes.

“Hermione!”

Dinner for the Four it was, in a quiet little Italian restaurant tucked away in a corner of Highgate. It was a post-match meal and Ginny was a Weasley after all; she’d have inhaled in an instant the grilled octopus, rabbit ragu tagliatelle and even the giant block of tiramisu, if not for the fact that she had to eat one-handed, her other hand curled around Harry’s waist and tucked underneath his shirt. Harry in his turn kept his arm around her shoulders. Ginny had showered and changed into a sleeveless blouse, and the skin of her upper arm tingled where his fingers just rested.

Through dinner, Hermione went on and on about her brand-new internship at the Ministry’s Office of Wizarding Law, and Ron about the latest round of Auror training and general gossip about what their erstwhile schoolmates were up to, half a year out of Hogwarts. Ginny zoned out halfway through pudding; Quidditch and food and wine and the afterglow of their all-too-brief encounter was stoking a fire inside her that was getting harder to ignore every passing minute. She turned a meaningful glance at Harry, who caught her eye.

“Right, um, Ginny and I have to, er, buy something at the shops,” said Harry quickly. He handed some Muggle pound notes to a smirking Hermione, as Ron made noises of disgust.

They practically ran, hand-in-hand, out of the restaurant.

Dropped by the Burrow just long enough to say hi to Mum and Dad, talk to them about the match for five minutes, then disappeared again, ostensibly for late-night drinks with Ron and Hermione – who would cover for them, and vice versa. Then it was back to Harry’s room at Grimmauld Place.

Now with the edge taken off the driving hungers, they took their time. In the dark, illuminated only by the moon filtering through the curtains, Ginny and Harry knelt on the bed and undressed each other slowly, pausing to fondly caress and kiss each revealed part as blouse, shirt, jeans and underthings came off. There was more exploring, reacquainting, tender grins and even giggles; the climax later coming almost as an afterthought.

Ginny settled herself comfortably in the crook of Harry’s arm, pulling the covers over them. She glanced up at his face; Harry was gazing thoughtfully out the window. He looked happy, content, but just a tiny bit distant.

“How are things at the Ministry?” she ventured.

“Getting better,” said Harry. “It’s definitely not as bad as it used to be. Kingsley’s doing the best he can, and just wait till Hermione’s found her feet, they won’t know what hit them.”

“There are still a lot of attacks aren’t there?”

“Yes. Mainly on Muggles.” It was harder for the Aurors to protect the huge non-magical population of Britain, Harry had explained to Ginny before, and more work all around investigating those crimes, cleaning up the ugly aftermath, and bringing the perpetrators to justice. By their nature, more than half of these cases would never be solved – the perpetrators would usually be long gone by the time their bloody acts were discovered, and it was all too easy for them to destroy what little evidence they left.

“When do you...” Ginny hesitated, then went on, “when do you think it will end?”

Harry scowled. “Probably never. There’ll always be wizards out there who see Muggles as easy prey, or who resent them for some stupid reason or other.” He gave her a reassuring squeeze, brushed his lips across her forehead, and his eyes settled back down on her. “Let’s not talk about it. How’s Quidditch? You played brilliantly, I thought…”

And you’ll always be fighting them, won’t you? That wasn’t the answer she wanted, at all. Ginny understood well the importance of Harry’s job. She’d always understood, even back when that meant fighting Voldemort, when survival had been so much more uncertain. And she had given her assent, of sorts, those tumultuous first two years after the war, back when Kingsley had offered Harry the Auror job. She’d agreed. But that didn’t mean she didn’t want Harry, Harry by her side, Harry not always leaving her behind, a Harry that didn’t sequester her from such a big part of his life, damn it.

But maybe now wasn’t the time to tell him so, not when everything was so gloriously, scrumptiously, exuberantly happy.

Ginny left Grimmauld Place reluctantly at around midnight. She didn’t dare risk sleeping over too often.

* * *

April was a good month, despite opening with the still all-too-raw wound of a Twins’ Birthday that was missing Fred.

This, the second anniversary since that loss, would set the pattern for years to come.

On the 1^st, the Weasleys came together in something that was not quite grief, and not quite celebration. Everyone got misty-eyed, and George put on a brave show through the day, then went and got drunk with Ron – the brother he had somehow latched on to help alleviate the loss of the irreplaceable other. Hermione fretted, squabbled with Mrs Weasley over the correct brewing of home-made hangover potion, and then went back to her parents’. Ginny, depressed, went on a long broom flight with Harry, her saying nothing, and him letting her fly in silence.

She loved that Harry knew when to just be there.

That is, when he was there.

Nonetheless, they did manage to cadge a few good days together out of their pitiless work-weeks.

Spring flowered and bloomed, and the pace at Holyhead and at the Auror Office eased a little so they found more time to fit in dates around Britain, lazy afternoons in the Burrow garden, playtime with Teddy Lupin, and unchaperoned interludes in Grimmauld Place.

They were good for each other, Ginny knew. Having faced death so often and for so long, Harry found a simple joy in life that helped Ginny see the best side of everything. The mere fact of being with Harry buoyed her up irrepressibly, made food taste better, made music resonate deep inside, the stars sparkle brighter. Life was so much more alive when she was with Harry. At the same time, her own natural exuberance helped him out of his gawky social shell, lifted him from his occasional black moods – an inescapable consequence of his vocation.

One evening, as they watched the sun go down from Stoatshead Hill, lying on a blanket amidst the remnants of a picnic, Ginny blurted: “I wish we could just stay here forever.”

Harry chuckled. “Nah, you think you could, but you wouldn’t,” he said. “There’s so much to do out there – places to go, things to see, League Cups to win...” He pulled up a primrose from the carpet of shy pale yellow blossoms around them, the very picture of happy innocence.

“If we had a simple life though, out here in the country, away from everything… away from London…” Ginny rolled over onto her front and looked up at Harry through drowsy half-closed eyes. “We could just forget it all… let everyone take care of themselves.” She found herself thinking of the Burrow, but not the Burrow… thinking of a Burrow-like house in the countryside, but done the way she liked it, and filled all day with Harry, and with children running around like how she remembered herself and her brothers, but they were indistinct amalgams that would look half like him and half like her, somehow...

“That’d be nice,” said Harry, in the same drowsy tone, and for a moment they were dreaming together, and Ginny again felt like they were one.

Then: “But not right now... that’s not possible,” he said. “Even if we don’t go looking for trouble, trouble comes looking for us.” A little resignation crept into his voice. “We have to be prepared.”

And thus, the moment was gone.

Oh stop it, Ginny berated herself. She tried to be practical. “We’re playing Falmouth this Saturday,” she hinted.

“I’ll try to make it,” Harry said. “We’ve got extra training this weekend, but we might finish the session early.”

He didn’t sound optimistic that it would, though, Ginny noted. “We don’t actually spend much time together, do we?” she said regretfully.

“Make the best out of what we have though,” said Harry.

“True,” admitted Ginny. “But...” But this isn’t going to be how it is moving forward, right? I’m not going to spend all my days seeing you twice a month, am I?

He must have seen the doubt in her eyes, because Harry leaned up on one elbow and said earnestly, “Things are just a little busier now, but it won’t be forever. It’s because of the new intake, we have four Trainees this year including Parvati; and Neville and I are helping out in the training programme...”

“Okay,” Ginny smiled. It won’t be forever.

On Saturday the Harpies played the Falmouth Falcons. Ginny scanned the crowd and saw no sign of Harry, shrugged, and joined the team for post-victory drinks. Because she had her own life to live too, didn’t she? He did show up for lunch the next day at the Burrow, and they both fell asleep afterwards full of Sunday roast, too tired to talk, snoozing hand-in-hand on the sofa in the living room.

It was something.

* * *

II.

On May 2^nd, Bill and Fleur’s baby came squalling into the world, five weeks early.

Ginny and almost all the Weasleys were there in St Mungo’s, an anxious wall of family sitting and standing and pacing in the waiting-room of the Dilys Derwent Delivery Ward, as if by their physical presence they could form a shield against all the unseen dangers of premature birth.

Magic is powerful, but not a cure-all. And Death is always lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce at any opportunity.

Ginny was the worst of the pacers, a constant vortex of nervous energy, getting up and walking around the hospital and sitting down – and repeating the cycle two minutes later. Neither Harry nor Ron were there. The Auror Office promised to let them come over the moment they could.

Well, perhaps the talisman of group worry worked, because after several harrowing hours, the Healer appeared and said with a worn-out smile, “Congratulations, Weasleys...” The rest of her words were drowned out by a loud cheer from George.

Ginny looked around, exchanging grins of relief and elation with her family. She was so excited! This baby, this was the first of the next generation of Weasleys, this unseen little girl whom the first-time parents still couldn’t decide would be named Camille – voted by Mum, Charlie, Ron, and Ginny – or Emma, as preferred by Percy, George, Hermione, and Harry. (Dad refused to give his opinion; he was far too canny to be drawn into this debate).

Hermione would say it was her nesting instincts acting up; Ginny, all of nineteen and not at all thinking of babies, scoffed at the idea. But for some indescribable reason, she wanted Harry to be here, not just with her family but with her, and… he wasn’t.

Bill appeared, and got his share of back-slaps and hugs, as if he’d done anything particularly strenuous today other than hold Fleur’s hand and fret. “Fleur’s a bit tired,” he said, “so why don’t you all come back tomorrow? You can see them both then.”

Behind Ginny, the doors to the waiting-room eased open, and Ron poked his head in. “Are we late?” he said with a big grin. “Sorry, got held up at work.” His red Auror cloak was stained and singed, despite the obvious signs of a hastily-applied Scourgify, and he’d missed a patch of soot on the tip of his nose.

Ginny pushed past him.

Harry was out in the corridor, bearing the same hurriedly-concealed signs of deadly struggle, only with a spattering of magically-healed scabs across his cheek like a directional spray of acne, and a huge rip in his jeans that would take proper darning, not a swish and flick quick-fix. Underneath that, there was surely a big slash; the edges of the rip were flecked with dried blood where the Cleaning Charm hadn’t got all of it off.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, and very gently traced the triangular spatter of scabs on his cheek with one fingertip.

“Hogwarts Day festivities,” said Harry grimly. “Some people just had to make their presence felt.”

It seemed so selfish now, for Ginny to wish Harry had been here with them, with her. Of course she couldn’t say anything like that. Of course she was just happy her Harry was here now, and in one piece. Deep inside though she felt unsatisfied.

Oh well, he’s here now, and that’s what matters.

The doors of the Dilys Derwent ward slammed, and George stormed out and past them without saying a word. Ron followed, stopping only to say “He’ll be alright, we’re just, uh, going for a drink. I’m going to make sure he’s okay.”

“What happened?” Ginny asked his back.

Over his shoulder, Ron said, “Bill and Fleur are naming her Victoire. George, well...” He didn’t finish, ran to catch up with his brother – the single twin, to whom today would never be a victory of any kind.

Ginny buried her face in Harry’s chest, listening thankfully again to the reassuring life that beat in it.

* * *

June was a sigh of relief, of sorts, that April and May and all its sorrowful associations were safely past.

A sense of renewal filled the air – perhaps that was why, Ginny thought, it stung more somehow when the commonplace disappointments of life disrupted the sleepy susurration of summer.

She was tired from a heavy mid-season training session, dispirited after disappointing personal performance at a ‘friendly’ against a visiting Indian team, and feeling generally manky with the onset of her period. All she wanted was to crawl into bed… and that was when Harry bounced out of the Burrow’s fireplace, ready for a date night.

“Ten-pin bowling!” he exclaimed. “I heard of this place in Lewisham that sounds pretty interesting, it’s full of Muggle students and does pizza and hot dogs and everything.”

As if she wasn’t already completely exhausted, this particular evening, the thought of greasy, cheesy, American-style pizza turned Ginny’s cramping stomach, as did the prospect of facing huge crowds. “Sounds terrible. I throw around a ball all day for work, Harry, I don’t want to do it in my off-hours,” she snapped.

Harry stopped short as if he had run into a brick wall. “But… I thought you seemed quite excited about the idea, the other day,” he said, sounding both surprised and disappointed.

Had she been? She couldn’t remember. “You must be joking!” Ginny humphed.

“Well… what about just having some takeout, then?” Sampling the vast array of cuisines available out in the Muggle world was part of Harry and Ginny’s great love for life, and that included the simple takeout available in London in all its myriad forms and tastes.

Ginny could feel her resolve weakening, but she had to keep up her training and diet regimen, or her scores would slip further. All part and parcel of the professional athlete life. “I’m on a strict training diet this week, Harry, I really can’t.”

“Oh, you’ve had cheat meals before haven’t you? Come on,” wheedled Harry.

Oh that was enough! “I said no, Harry,” she snapped. “This is part of my work, I have to take my diet more seriously! You should too!” Ginny jumped up. “I’m not feeling well, I’m going to bed,” she said shortly. And practically ran upstairs. Without saying goodnight.

The last thing she saw, glancing down the Burrow’s winding staircase, was Harry watching her go with a look of blank hurt in his eyes.

* * *

It didn’t happen, they both tried to convince themselves.

Harry was neither exaggeratedly cool nor cheery to her the next week, at the Burrow. He just tried hard, as she did, to pretend that everything was fine, everything was normal. But the incident rankled, in his head – Ginny could tell. He was just a hair quieter than usual, turning the thing over in his head, chewing it over.

Ginny tossed her red mane of hair sharply, like a horse getting rid of a fly. She had been feeling poorly anyway, he couldn’t blame her for that! He had always known, somehow, had always read her mood well. He could always tell when she was sad, anxious, or her monthlies were upon her, and did thoughtful things like bring her stuff, buy her favourite flavours of sweets and choccy, and tuck her gently into bed. If he hadn’t noticed it this time – that was his bloody problem, wasn’t it?

In any case, they made up with a whole day out wandering around Covent Garden, marvelling at the sheer volume and variety of Muggle ingenuity on display. Talented street performers, artfully crafted knick-knacks, verdant hidden city gardens, infinite combinations of food and drink – all the ways they made magic out of not-magic.

And thus life went on, and Ginny and Harry made the best out of these wonderful moments, and forgot the cares and concerns.

But even so, it was getting harder to make up for the long silences in between. Something felt amiss, and Ginny couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She only knew she wasn’t quite as in tune with Harry as before, and though they tried their best, quality couldn’t always make up for quantity.

“No, the 25^th isn’t good, we have a team day out and you can’t miss those,” said Ginny. She threw the quill down. “Looks like our next date is next month.” She stalked around the kitchen of the Burrow, staring moodily at a batch of muffins – verboten under her training diet. It was late at night, and she was having an acceptable evening with Harry after the family dinner, after which Mum and Dad had gone upstairs and left them nominally alone… but it wasn’t the same as proper alone time, of course.

“Mm.” Harry looked up from apparently staring at the opposite wall. “That’s okay. I’ll take what I can get.”

Ginny patted his hand, and he squeezed hers a little absent-mindedly. “What’s got you so distracted?”

Harry shook his head. “S’nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Of course I’ll worry about it, you prat, you’re in the thick of it,” said Ginny. And I’m not, she didn’t add, because you’re leaving me out. As usual.

“Well,” said Harry, sounding as if every word was being dragged out of him by wild Abraxans, “There’s something going on that involves the vampires, and we can’t figure it out. It’s doing all our heads in, even Ron’s…” He trailed off into silence and looked down.

The reference to Ron somehow ate at Ginny more than the fact that it seemed she and Harry couldn’t arrange a dinner date in all of sodding July, and that he couldn’t leave off thinking about Auror work when they were here, now, on one of the increasingly-scarce occasions they could find time together. She shut her planner loudly.

Harry jumped at the sound and looked round irritably. “What on earth’s the matter with you?”

“Ron seems to get along fine with Hermione, I don’t know why it’s so hard for you to get time off,” she snapped. “What is it with you, are you slower than him at work, or what?”

“Low blow, Ginny.” Harry's right fist clenched, so that scar from that Umbitch made its faded appearance. In the past it had always marked Harry's getting angry at something or someone, usually some Death Eater revivalist wannabe who was about to learn just how well-deserved Harry's reputation was. It pained Ginny deep inside to see that little tic directed at her… but she didn't let herself think about that now. “Look, there's some very serious stuff going on in the Office now, just trust me, alright?”

“ ‘Just trust you’, is that all the answer I'm ever going to get?!” snarled Ginny.

“Well, don’t you trust me?! Is that the problem?”

“Do you remember two years ago, when you first joined the Aurors? You said no more secrets. You said you'd walk away if I asked you to.”

“Really, Ginny? Is this it already, you're pulling that card already? Are you asking me to walk away from the Aurors just because you want me not to miss any of your matches?! Cause I find that pretty damned selfish of you, Ginny!” Harry slapped the table. “You know what we do in the Office, you know how dire it is out there, Ron and I've brought you in, we’ve shown you! Trust him at least, even if you don't believe me,” said Harry bitterly.

“I just want us to have a real life together, not just bits and pieces on random days of the month, but you can’t let go, can you? You’re always having to chase off after something else! You’re always having to save someone else!”

“I’m trying to save us! I’m trying to make it possible for us to have that life we want!”

"You made me promises, Harry! Did you mean any of them? Or were you just leading me on?!"

Harry jumped to his feet. “Of course I wasn't, dammit! Fine, I'll make more time for your matches! Happy? Is that the answer you want?!”

“Yes! No! I DON'T KNOW!” Ginny yelled, then stormed out of the kitchen and into the garden, where the stupid ducks, disturbed from their snooze by the water’s edge, glared at her as if about to lodge a noise complaint.

A few minutes later Harry joined her silently by the pond. He chucked a crumb of muffin at the nearest duck, which looked at it disdainfully and glared at Harry in turn as if to say and you can piss off too. Wanker.

After a while Harry said, “I love the Burrow's garden. Just about every memory I have of this place is wonderful. Your parents – they really made this feel like a real home. Like this was a real family.” Not like Privet Drive, he left unsaid.

Ginny nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“And I do want to build something like that of our own, believe me, I do. I just – I don't know how, yet. There’s so much we have to do. It’s not safe out there, it’s not the right time. But I’m finding my way, and we’re working towards a better world. I just need a little time. Then I’ll hang up the Auror cloak and, I dunno, find something else to do.”

Will you? Will you really, Harry? Ginny sighed, and let herself fall a little sideways, leaning into Harry's shoulder. His arm wrapped around her, and she felt unshed tears sting the backs of her eyes.

“Oh, Merlin. What's happening to us, Harry?” she said forlornly. “Drifting apart, rowing… Are we… are we done?” Was it all a stupid fairytale that's come finally to an end?

Harry shook his head. “Nah. We're just tired, and – and out of sorts. You and I both. We’re still good. It’ll all get better.” He said this with a shadow of his usual confidence, and gave her a decent approximation of his smile – the confidence that had inspired teenagers to fight as an army, the smile full of the sincerity that marked his character.

Ginny tried her best to believe him.

* * *

Ginny’s nineteenth birthday was disappointing in its mundanity.

It was a Friday, but also a designated rest day for the match against the Tutshill Tornados the following afternoon. They had some very light formation work and then Gwenog made them all go home and rest. Ginny had to stick to her diet, so there was not even the suggestion of cake, nor could she even pig out on Mum’s hearty British cooking – it was brown rice, grilled salmon, fresh greens and fruit, as Coach ordered. Healthy stuff. Boring stuff.

Harry was there, and they, well, made as much of it as they could under the eyes of the Weasley family. But there was a gap between them – a gap made up of words unspoken, grievances unaired, questions about each other in their minds. Ginny felt it in the slight stiffness of their bodies, the careful choice of words, the just-slightly-so tight smiles. And then the next day, Harry couldn’t attend the match, or make plans for dinner afterwards. She tried not to feel resentful.

It would have been bearable, just, if the bloody Tornados hadn’t oh-so-skilfully picked apart the Harpies.

Ginny and the Harpies gave it their all, but Tutshill showed just why they were at the top of the table. Every move, every tactic, every decision was just a hair better than the Harpies, and the little differences added up.Snitch! magazine called the match a ‘virtuoso display of top-tier professional Quidditch’. Gwenog Jones called it a lot of very loud and unprintable words.

Harry was there the next day at the Burrow. It was a belated birthday lunch of sorts, and an allowed ‘diet-off day’, and Mum made all her favourites. But for Ginny, the taste of shepherd’s pie and chocolate cake mixed with the ashes of defeat, and of Harry’s not even being there to console her after. Harry must have sensed her disappointment; when he followed her up to her room afterwards, he wasn’t expecting birthday kisses – he was ready with apologies.

“You weren’t there.”

“I’m sorry, there was an emergency,” said Harry. “I… I tried.”

“You always try,” said Ginny. “But you never actually do. We see each other, what, twice a month? We make plans every week and half the time you blow them off because something comes up.”

“Well, I don’t do it on purpose, I want to be with you. But you know how Auror work is like, Ginny. There was an emergency all-hands…”

Yes, yes, she knew. Magical crime did not work to a fixed schedule. And Harry was trying his best. “It’s just really frustrating, us not being able to catch each other,” said Ginny. She patted the bed, and Harry came to sit beside her, relaxing slightly. “And, well… I don’t know if I should continue with this Quidditch lark.”

She poured out everything that she had bottled up then, the fears and concerns. There was a distinct disparity in Quidditch pay between the top, the middling, and the bottom. If you played for England or was at least in the First Seven on the top four teams, you were comfortable. If you were decent, you made average pay, like any other shopkeeper or Ministry desk jockey. And if you were at or near the bottom of the League – like the Cannons – then, well, you played for love of the sport, and eked out whatever incidental benefits you got by fixing Floos five days a week.

Harry made all the right noises, listening to Ginny as they sprawled across the quilt in her sunny, comfortably familiar bedroom, their feet on the floor. Mm-hmm, yeah, she was on a bee-line to the top of the League, for a second-stringer, but that didn’t mean she would definitely make the cut. And if not, what then? And even if, what after? Professional Quidditch careers didn’t last long. Was Ginny throwing it all away? Maybe she should quit now, while she was young, still able to put her all into a different career without much time wasted…

Somewhere along the way, Harry’s eyes closed.

“You’re not listening to a word I say, are you?” said Ginny. Why was her voice wobbling? “Harry!”

He woke with a start, then rubbed his eyes guiltily. “Sorry, I drifted off. Been working late nights, on top of yesterday’s to-do. Well, I’ve always said, if you love Quidditch, go for it. You just do what you want, Ginny.” He paused, then added, “That’s what you’ve always done, anyway.”

Ginny sat up. “What do you mean by that?” she asked sharply.

His answering chuckle had a sardonic edge to it, she thought. “You’ve just gone and done whatever you wanted, whatever anyone else thinks. ‘Anything’s possible if you’ve got nerve’, right? You’d pursue any career you fancy. Even professional Quidditch.” Harry shrugged. “Well, it’s just Quidditch anyway. It’s not life and death.”

“ ‘Even’?” Ginny jumped up and faced him, hands on her hips. “ ‘Just’? Excuse me, who are you and what have you done with Harry Potter? When did you not care about Quidditch? This is important to me, don’t you realise? This is my career! This is my life!”

“But you were just going on about how much you hated it,” Harry pointed out. “If you hate it so much, just leave it. Find something else to do.”

“This isn’t what I wanted to hear from you.” Ginny scuffed angrily at a sudden tear in the corner of her eye. Where had it come from?

“Then what is it you want?” pleaded Harry. “Look, I’m just trying – help me out here, Ginny, you know I’m not good at this reading girls’ minds stuff, I’m trying to be a good boyfriend and all, but…”

“Are you though?” snapped Ginny.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

She ignored him and stumped out of her own room.

No, Ginny did not have a good nineteenth birthday.

* * *

After that, the idea of seeing Harry became inextricably mixed with something hot and angry, inside, and often Ginny thought she would rather just not bother.

In the second half of the year's Quidditch League season, Ginny was once again thrown every which way at once – fixtures all over the British Isles, training at Holyhead, rest and increasingly-rarefied sleep at the Burrow. There were few hours she truly had for herself, and true, some of that time she tried her best to make those hours not hers, but hers-and-Harry's, to try and fix whatever the hell had happened. But sometimes, she felt completely worn-out and just wanted to curl up in a corner with no company but herself.

Besides, Ginny decided, it was high bloody time Harry could get a taste of what she got from him. It would do him good, thought Ginny, to have her tell him no for once. Have it going the other way round for a change.

Her chance came a couple of weeks later.

“Hey?”

“Hey.” Ginny didn’t look up from her paperback novel.

“Listen, uh. Nev and Sue and the gang wanted to check out the new dance club that opened in Knockturn Alley.”

Despite herself, Ginny’s interest was piqued. She looked up at him under the guise of reaching for her tea. Harry stood there uncomfortably in the Burrow’s living room, his hands in his pockets. “Uhuh.”

“It’s not really a work thing, though of course we’re scoping the place out, for future… y’know. But Sue thinks it’d be fun, and I thought…” He tried for an awkward smirk. “Place is called ‘Pixie Dust’. Can you believe that?”

She suppressed a grin. Harry Potter and dance clubs do not go together, Ginny knew that. She knew he wouldn’t really have fun at such a place unless she was there. She knew he was trying to make up for everything that had happened. But she was tired, and she wasn’t ready to kiss and make up yet. She wanted to make a point. “No,” she said stubbornly, though she really wanted to say…

“Can’t you just…” Harry bit off the sentence in frustration, ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe it’s not your sort of thing, it isn’t my cup of tea either, but we can just shove off in a corner and just drink and, I dunno, talk, right?”

“No,” said Ginny, staring down at the page and not reading a word. “I’m tired. You go ahead.”

Harry stood there for a while, but she ignored him. “Okay,” he finally said tonelessly. “Take care.”

Ginny went to bed with a sense of hollow victory, that vanished the next morning when she came down, fixed herself tea and toast, and picked up the Daily Prophet.

Potter Pecks Petite Pretty Popsie at Pixie Dust Premiere!

And there she was. Harry, and Cho bloody Chang, their faces practically touching, smiling at each other over a couple of pints.

Ginny didn’t have to read the rest of the article, but she did anyway. Then she flung the paper out the door of the Burrow, whipped out her wand and blasted it to pieces, sending a couple of gnomes diving for cover.

* * *

When he called her out again, she was astounded at the way he tried to sweep it all under the carpet, like everything else.

He must know I know. He must know I’m off-the-wall mad. No, this one, this one we are not avoiding!

She was ready, she’d spent all the intervening days gathering her weapons, the words, the scornful looks, preparing every muscle of her body as if for a Quidditch match.

“No, not this week, or the next, I’m busy with important stuff. Why, is Cho Chang unavailable?” she fired back.

In the days running up to this, she had imagined with vicious satisfaction the expression of guilt and contrition that would bloom on his stupid face as the words struck home. The reality of Harry’s bewilderment didn’t live up to anywhere near her fantasy had. In fact, he looked a little hurt and disappointed, and she had to fight down an instant’s urge to wipe away that hurt with the touch of fingers and lips.

“Cho?” said Harry quizzically. “What about her?”

“I don’t know, ‘what about her?’ ” mimicked Ginny. “How is she these days? Did you have a good time at Pixie Dust?”

Harry laughed, he actually laughed! Was he not taking her at all seriously?! “That was nothing, she happened to be there and we got to talking about Quidditch, school, what she’s been up to...”

“That was ‘nothing’, was it? ‘Nothing’ looked really cosy to me in the photos.”

“Come on, Ginny, you know these tabloid shots always make things look different. The place was deafening, we had to get close and shout just to have a proper conversation.” Harry ran a hand through his hair in irritation. “Look, I specifically blocked time off from the Office this weekend, I don’t often have a whole free evening these days, why don’t we have dinner at that Italian place Hermione showed us, you rather liked that one.”

This wasn’t going at all as Ginny had imagined. Mutinously, she replied, “I said I’m busy. Lots to do. I’m a professional Quidditch player you know, we have very busy schedules, unlike whatever Cho’s doing...”

Finally, a reaction; Harry’s face darkened angrily. “If you’re pissed with me, Ginny, over whatever it is, have the decency to leave Cho out of it. She’s had her share of bad press too which she does not deserve, you don’t have to add to it. Be fair, Ginny.”

“I’m being unfair?” said Ginny loudly. “You went out with her! To a nightclub! And ended up practically necking the night away!”

“I said nothing happened! I was with the rest of the team from the office, and Neville and Sue and Ron was there as well! Besides, I asked you to come along and you said no!”

She knew it, she knew it, this was what it was all leading up to. Ginny only blamed herself for not seeing it earlier. And why not? She was his type, after all – had once been his choice, after all… She thought about Harry doing things with Cho that he only did with her, and the jealousy pierced her to the core. “So Cho was your backup date, was she? Is she your backup shag as well?!”

“That’s not what... this is ridiculous, Ginny!” Harry clenched his fists and looked around wildly. “You know what? You’re tired, you’re tired and stressed out, that’s why you’re jumping to crazy conclusions. That’s fine. But don’t you bloody well take it out on me, I have a pretty damn stressful job myself, it’s not a bloody lark looking at dead people all the time!”

“Oh, so my job isn’t as difficult as yours, that’s the problem here eh, Mister Big Bloody Auror Tight-Arse?” snarled Ginny.

“Yeah, let me think, throwing a ball around, or chancing my arm looking for murderous Dark wizards, I wonder which one is worse!”

She lost it, she completely lost it, Ginny saw blood red. “YOU NEVER HAD A PROBLEM WITH THAT BEFORE!” screamed Ginny. “It’s always been YOUR job that’s the problem with us...!”

“Oh, we have an ‘us’ now, do we, we’re seeing each other now, are we...?!”

“I don’t know, ARE WE?! You’re never around when I need you, you miss almost all my games, arranging for a fucking dinner together’s like planning for the World Cup, what do you think? Merlin’s rock, I might as well not have a fucking boyfriend, what difference would it make!”

“Well alright then, if you think that way, let’s just bloody well call it all off!”

“FINE!”

“FINE!”

And Harry stormed out of the Burrow, slamming its door for probably the first time ever.

Angry tears spilled out of Ginny’s eyes, and she cursed them for tearing up when she clearly meant to be angry, not heartbroken. A moment later the enormity of what had just happened hit her – we’ve broken up, we’ve broken up, I’ve broken up with Harry! – and Ginny felt sick, actually physically sick. She pressed her hand to her mouth, and sank to the floor, wrapping her arm around her tummy as if she could hold in the sobs suddenly shaking her body.

“Ginny.” It was Mum, standing at the door clutching her dressing-gown, a look of sympathy on her face.

Ginny gave a wail and pushed past her and fled up the stairs to her room, where she huddled into a tiny ball under the covers and wept.

* * *

III.

To this day, Ginny doesn’t remember much of what she did that September and October.

There must have been Quidditch matches, and the evidence was there in the match histories and scores on her permanent record. Unlike most of her other games though, Ginny couldn’t remember any details at all. Supposedly Ginny outscored every other second-stringer one week, at the cost of a sprained wrist even magic couldn’t cure instantly; another week she received a one-match ban for flying to collide, i.e. nearly ramming the Ballycastle Bats’ Keeper off his broom because he openly gloated after she missed a penalty throw. And not just the games – her memory of the period was rather blank. (At times terrifyingly blank, for someone who had been through what she had been through.)

On the 16^th of September, Hermione celebrated her birthday, a quiet lunch party held in the Grangers’ cosy suburban home in Highgate. Ginny showed up late in her mud-spattered Quidditch flying jacket, pleading extra practice; ate a slice of chocolate fudge cake, pecked Hermione on the cheek, and disappeared. Ron was furious. Apparently, Harry had dropped by earlier that morning, drank Hermione’s health, picked at a lamb chop, and then vanished, pleading extra Auror duty – which Ron, of course, knew he had volunteered for.

So he’s avoiding me too, thought Ginny. A tangled ball of emotions erupted inside her – she felt angry, frustrated, oddly pleased, a little sad.

“And he’s a right strop at work too,” added Ron. “So you two sort yourselves out, and stop taking it out on the rest of us.”

“Oh so it’s my fault is it, that he’s decided I’m not good enough for him?” flared Ginny. “Why’s he so bothered anyway, he can go shack up with Cho bloody Chang and that’ll make it alllll better…!”

Ron looked at her with pitying disgust. “You forget I was there at Pixie Dust too, Ginny? We really did just happen to bump into Cho, and Harry caught up with her a bit, that’s all. And Cho’s seeing someone else, anyway.”

“I should’ve known you’d side with your best mate over your own sister!”

“Only when my sister is being utterly unreasonable!”

She didn’t say a word to Ron for weeks after that.

Hermione wasn’t Ron, though, despite them being practically glued together at the hips (and lips) these days.

She listened to Ginny rant about Harry for three hours in a Kensington cafe over tea and eclairs (to hell with the training diet). Ginny poured everything out – Harry’s inability to match her schedule, Harry’s obsession with his Auror investigations, his unwillingness to share his life with her, the fact that he no longer cared as deeply for her Quidditch as she did, all those words between them that came out wrong, the slow but steady parting of ways, the sense that he didn’t know her any more – and that she didn’t know him, either. And that it was Harry who had taken the first step towards opening up options elsewhere, looking up an old flame.

Oh God, that hurt so much saying out loud.

But she did feel better after letting it all out. And it did help her make up her mind. “Look, we gave it a good go, and that’s that,” said Ginny. “We thought we were good together. We were wrong. Time for me to move on, as well.” And that’s not a new road for me to walk, she thought.

Hermione was most sympathetic, especially about the Auror stuff. She went through much the same with Ron, of course, though somehow they’d worked things out.

“Maybe you two need a little time apart,” mused Hermione.

“You must be joking!” exclaimed Ginny incredulously. “Too much time apart was the problem!”

“I mean to think things over, and come back to the relationship with fresh eyes.”

It didn’t escape Ginny that the other member of the famous Trio would of course want them both back together, and that would certainly colour what she had to say. Hermione’s sentimental like that, she thought. I’m not.

“You’re both going through a really difficult time,” Hermione said. “It’s not your fault your work schedule’s the way it is. But that’s not really the problem here, is it?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” said Hermione. “You’ve been through worse. No, I think you’re both finding it hard to adapt to the changes in your lives. You had different expectations about work commitments, and about how much time you could spend together. You’re entering a new phase in your life with different challenges popping up nearly every day. You’re changing, becoming a different person, growing, trying to find new footing on constantly-shifting ground.” Hermione gave Ginny a kind smile. “And so is Harry.”

“Well,” said Ginny doubtfully. “But…”

“Being with Harry’s not just about who you are today, or him either,” Hermione went on. “It’s also about how you’ll grow together, what kind of future you’re both working towards, what you’ll both become. And how you’ll face these challenges to your relationship every day. Because something new and unexpected will always come up.”

“But you could say that about just any two people,” argued Ginny. “You have to be compatible, and I thought we were, but it looks like we aren’t, after all. That’s all it was. And then it all fell apart.”

Hermione looked like she was going to say something else, then thought better of it. “Well… are you going to talk to him? Try to work things out?” asked Hermione, her expression a tangle of concern and anxiety.

“He made it clear he’s calling it off,” said Ginny.

“Words said in the middle of a flaming row…”

“We’re too busy,” she said obstinately. “And he’s changed, as you said. He goes out to dance-clubs with Tutshill fans, that’s his thing now apparently.” Deep inside, Ginny knew she didn’t really believe that, but she didn’t want to admit it right now.

“He spends nearly all his time at Auror Headquarters,” said Hermione, looking down at her teacup. “Even sleeps there half the nights every week. Ron’s really worried.”

“That’s always been the problem with him. Seems like he’s doing what he’s always wanted to, now,” said Ginny. She suppressed an urge to ask about Harry’s health – she assumed he was doing fine. In any case, Cho would be happy to step in where Ginny was supposed to be and look after him, she was sure.

Well fine. Harry could live his own life, and she would live hers. Harry wasn’t her everything after all. She could take care of herself! She could have a fine time without him!

So Ginny threw herself into her Quidditch, went drinking with her team-mates, and had fun catching up with all the Harpies gossip she hadn’t had the chance to listen to, when she was always slipping off with Harry. She ate massive meals, of Mum’s cooking and in pubs with her team-mates and in cafes with Hermione, and convinced herself she enjoyed them. She did the rounds of her brothers’ houses and dropped by Andromeda’s to play with Teddy – though she checked first to make sure Harry wasn’t there.

And whenever she was in a pensive mood, she went on long broom flys when she felt the need to get away and think. Long, aimless flights in a straight line from the Burrow to whichever point of the compass she fancied, enjoying the sunshine warm on her skin, or battling through driving rain just for the sheer challenge of doing it.

All by herself.

No-one else to fly quietly alongside her.

She swore she wouldn’t. She made herself extra busy so she wouldn’t. But somehow, sometimes, on occasion – that is, every five minutes that she wasn’t talking to anyone – her thoughts unwillingly drifted back to Harry.

Ginny had no illusions about Harry. He was not her Hero. He was not the Chosen One (he despised that name). Harry had his faults – that is, faults that she had a major problem with, like his reckless selflessness, his close-mouthedness, his single-minded obsessions, his tendency to leave people out of the picture if he felt like it, even the unpredictable way he could unthinkingly splurge a boatload of gold at times and be an infuriating penny-pinching slob at other times.

But… he made everything better.

Harry was someone she could show off her Quidditch to, with whom she could celebrate the wins and mourn the losses, without feeling either envied or pitied. He was someone who made eating and drinking and reading and watching the world go by more wonderful just by being there with her. He was someone who would never despise her for her own faults. He was someone with whom Ginny could share her life with, someone she could trust to love her, care for her, come what may, till the end of all things.

But you can say that about more than just one person in the world, can’t you?

Harry was just another guy. She had once told herself to forget him, and tried other boys – Michael Corner, Dean Thomas; she’d even considered dotty, kind, unassuming Neville Longbottom – and who knows? In her future there could be someone else for her. Someone more suited to her needs.

Right?

* * *

Luna was, well, Luna.

“European beavers mate for life, and I think Crumple-Horned Snorkacks too,” said Luna, when Ginny asked her opinion. “An obscure manuscript I’m almost sure was authored by Snorri Sturluson says pair-bonded Snorkacks can dispute over most anything, and even fight like rival male Snorkacks typically do, but they always end up together again, even if they spend years apart from each other.”

“Snorkacks aren’t…” real, began Ginny, but she finished “…human, Luna.”

“No, but imagine how much we could learn if we could communicate with animals!” said Luna excitedly. She waved her wand in great loopy arcs to make her point; the watering cans she was charming to irrigate the Lovegoods’ vegetable patch began dancing in mid-air. “I always think, Daddy and I are so much better now that we talk things out, imagine what we could learn from the bees and dragons and Wrackspurts. I explain to Daddy when I’m on my period and will be grumpy, and Daddy tells me he’s afraid of losing me like he lost Mum. That way I can reassure him, and he doesn’t do silly things like betray friends to the Ministry again.”

Luna turned back to watering, which Ginny was thankful for; she didn’t think she could look Luna in the eye right now.

“You’re angry he won’t talk to you about himself,” said Luna over her shoulder. “But you do tell Harry about how you feel too, don’t you?”

I did, thought Ginny, as she flew back to the Burrow. Didn’t I?

Demelza was blunt in the way former dorm-mates and sister Chasers could be, in the way family couldn’t.

“You and Harry spent more time shagging anyway,” she observed. “Can’t say I didn’t see it coming.”

“We talked!” protested Ginny, but only automatically; her heart wasn’t in it. Not anymore.

“What about? Not just Quidditch and catching naughty wizards, surely? What about everything in your heart, everything you bottle up? Not just the big things – what about the little things he does that makes you happy, and the little things he does that piss you off?” Demelza tossed Ginny the Quaffle, and she fumbled the catch. She, Ginny, who was on the Harpies’ Second Seven, and who was supposed to be helping Dem with extra training to come up from the Reserves, so they could both be on the Team together.

Did we talk about all that? But Harry knew when I wanted more of him, and when I wanted him to give me space, didn’t he? He’s always known what I wanted before I even said it… hasn’t he?

“You can’t let all that sort of thing add up. Yeah, I’ve seen you do that thing where you almost seem to read each others’ minds,” continued Demelza, easily catching the ball as Ginny threw it back. “But you shouldn’t rely on that. And then you can get complacent, and not talk things out as much as you should about the things that bother you. And those things change too. What used to bother you doesn’t, and what didn’t use to, does. Life moves on, doesn’t it? Things change – he’ll change, you’ll change – and when they do, you need to re-establish yourselves.” Demelza stopped throwing the Quaffle and hovered there in mid-air with the ball perched thoughtfully on her lap. “You going to patch things up, or move straight on?”

Yeah. Blunt.

“Bit early to talk about moving on, isn’t it?” said Ginny. She said this with more hope than certainty.

Demelza shrugged. “Well, you always did jump headlong in and out of these things fast,” she said.

Ginny looked askance at this observation;Demelza had famously found her boyfriend in second year, and the two had stayed together until now. Fast by her standards, didn’t mean anything…

“I mean, when you dumped Michael, there was Dean, and after Dean came Harry in what was it, two weeks? Of course, Harry’s the one you stayed with the longest, but that doesn’t have to mean anything, does it?” Demelza threw the Quaffle, and Ginny didn’t even pretend to try catching, letting it plummet to the ground. “Who’ve you got your eye on now? You’ve plenty of time to look around now, I guess.”

No-one. There isn’t anyone who can hold a candle to what I felt for Harry. He was always different, truly. “I, uh, I’m done in for today, Dem. Thanks for listening.” Ginny flew off in the direction of the changing-rooms.

Behind her, Demelza swooped down to pick up the Quaffle, muttering to herself: “If that don’t do it, my name isn’t ‘Robins’.”

* * *

The days grew shorter, and the close of the year loomed.

It’s the 31^st of October, thought Ginny, as she Flooed back to the Burrow after a long day of practice, showered, ate. What’s he doing now? He’ll be sad. But in his private, quiet, shuttered-up way. He’d hate the spectacle this day has become. He’ll push everyone away, insist he’s fine, make a brave, brave show of it. But deep down, he’d want someone close, someone special, to be there for him, to pull his head onto her chest and stroke his head and kiss him gently and tell him it’s alright to miss people he never knew, miss what could have been.

If not for the break-up, she would have been that one. She should have been that one.

But did she deserve to be that one, anymore?

Hermione’s and Luna’s and Demelza’s opinions put a different slant on things. After hearing them out, Ginny had found herself going back and re-examining the past year, the good times and the bad, the happy days and the squabbles, the little tiny annoyances that grew and grew until it had become too much for them to bear. Was she as blameless in all of it as she had once thought? Were all their differences irreconcilable?

No, and no.

They had fought so much over what seemed like the most inconsequential matter of seeing each other, but ironically, Ginny somehow found herself with too much free time now and no appealing way to fill it up. Her downtime was now not just Harry-free, it was… generally empty. As with everything else she did. She slept, but woke up feeling unrested. She ate, but mechanically – even her treat cravings died down. She trained and played Quidditch, and did quite well, but knew the tiniest edge had been taken off the top of her performance.

In any case, Ginny felt worn out more than invigorated by the mere thought of going around seeing people and doing stuff. (It had never been that way with him – every minute together had been treasured.) She spent a lot of her time moping around the house, until Hermione came by to drag her out into the rare November sunshine, interrupting a Sunday morning lie-in.

“How long has it been since you went shopping?” demanded Hermione.

“Don’t wanna go,” mumbled Ginny into her pillow. She tried to burrow deeper into the bedclothes, and sort of shrink into her messy unmade hair, operating on the logic adopted by many animals that if she couldn’t see Hermione, she wouldn’t herself be seen.

“Come on, I desperately need some new blouses, and you’ve an eye for what looks good,” said Hermione, literally hauling Ginny up by the arm. “Ron’s coming with, but he’s hopeless.”

Well, maybe she could be charitable. After all, this was Hermione on a shopping spree. Merlin knew what fashion atrocities she could end up committing. “Alright. Just to save you from ending up with chartreuse dungarees or something.”

Hermione had the best of intentions, and Ron as well. They treated the day like any other day, kept their talk as normal as possible. But, well, that was half the problem. As they strolled down Oxford Street, mingling with the Muggle crowds popping in and out of H&M and Zara and Mango, Ron and Hermione were their normal selves – that is, young and in love and all over each other. The sight of her brother and her dear friend walking arm in arm, talking in low happy whispers, flirting (Hermione Granger acting coquettish was a sight to behold) made Ginny… not resentful, nor wistful, truly.

Merely sad.

After helping Hermione pick out a few things, Ginny mumbled some excuse about looking for a cup of coffee, and went mooching along down the pavement, hands stuffed in her pockets. It was a balmy day, and London’s parks and public spaces were full of people, and it seemed to her as if every one of them, everywhere she turned, was a happy young couple, reminding her of what she had lost.

Because that was it, wasn’t it? She had lost Harry, totally and completely. The past two months had made that quite clear to her – it was over, they were done, he did not want to see her even amongst the other Weasleys if he could help it. He had been a beautiful, wonderful part of her life; piling on joy to the happy times, lending a comforting shoulder to the sad, a steadfast support and stalwart shield when she needed, to the best ability of his dear selfless heart… and now he was gone, when he didn’t have to be.

He was there, within reach, and yet out of. That stung the most.

And why? Because she had been jealous. She had been impetuous. She had wanted to win the fight, instead of wanting to be right. Sure, there were problems, niggling nuisances that had fired up her infamous temper, but had they really been ‘absolutely-nots’ worth smashing everything up for? They could have worked things out, slowly, carefully, considerately. Then they wouldn’t be here.

At the end of the day, if Ginny was honest with herself, the question was: would she take it all back, if she could? And if she never saw him again, if they went their separate ways, if she found someone else – would she feel diminished by the fact? That was really the final question.

Yes, and yes.

That was the thought that echoed in Ginny’s head, over and over, as she walked the cheerful streets filled with courting couples, watching the echoes of the life and love she had once had, and barely even noticed let alone cared that the tears were flowing steadily.

* * *

IV.

It happens when the Harpies lose.

By the middle of November, Holyhead was nearly out of the running for the Cup. To even have the faintest chance of overhauling Tutshill, they had to beat Kenmare, and win the last three League matches of the year. A monumentally tall order, but – one game at a time, right?

Just before the match Ginny, peeping out at the stands, had reflexively scanned the Top Box. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the familiar black-haired head, not looking her way, talking casually to someone else – probably one of her brothers. Then she pushed it to the back of her mind. This game was it. Make or break time.

When the Kestrels’ Seeker caught the Snitch, Ginny had the Quaffle. As she landed, she was conscious she had done her best as had everyone else, but she barely had the strength left to mourn. In the Players’ locker-room Gwenog didn’t even have the heart to yell at them. All she said was: “Go on, have what’s left of the weekend off. I’m going to go get my brains shagged out so I don’t have to think.”

Ginny would have liked nothing better herself, but Harry wasn’t there Backstage to share the loss with her. Losers don’t get the boy, thought Ginny. Then she said angrily out loud “Snap the fuck out of it, Ginny!” and went back home to the Burrow, where she put her Quidditch gear into the wash, suffered with good grace the sympathetic attentions of her parents, ate three helpings of shepherd’s pie and two of Mum’s honey cake, and went to bed early.

The next match, everyone resolved to at least salvage their pride, if not the Cup. There was a kind of relief knowing they were not playing for a win any more, and the Harpies took out all their frustrations on the poor Wimbourne Wasps, taking a twenty-goal lead early on and extending it mercilessly. Gwenog rotated out the Second Seven to give them more flight hours, and as she wheeled away after sinking her tenth goal of the match, out of the corner of her eye Ginny saw the black-haired figure in the Top Box punch the air, and her insides flipped.

But he wasn’t there in the visitors’ reception room when Ginny went to look – casually – on the way from the loo – simply because it would have been churlish not to just say ‘hi’…

Maybe he simply came to see the game with Ron and George or something. It doesn’t mean anything.

And no, he wasn’t there either next week, at the second-last League match of the season. So there you go. Ginny told herself sternly that it didn’t mean anything to her anyway. And besides, it was probably better that way, at least he didn’t have to witness the Harpies get pounded into the dirt by the Appleby Arrows. At the Harpies’ home grounds.

Except, of course, he did, because there was Harry when Ginny sloped out of the locker room still in her Harpies flying togs, dragging her kit and not caring if it scuffed the floor.

“Harry? What are you doing here?” Ginny blurted out. She was suddenly aware that she stank, her braid was practically undone, her makeup was non-existent – and that this was the first time she was face-to-face with Harry bloody Potter since, well…

“I managed to catch the last fifteen minutes,” said Harry, with a rueful half-grimace, half-smile. “I thought I’d see if you wanted to – to commiserate over dinner.” His face fell, and he half-stared at his feet, watching her from under his brows.

She thought she could hear her heart speed up in the silent few seconds that followed. “I’d love to,” said Ginny softly. “Can I – can you meet me at the Burrow in ten minutes?”

Harry smiled more fully then. The sight did wonderful things to Ginny’s stomach she couldn’t describe. “Take all the time you need.”

Ginny walked slowly to the Floo; halfway she broke into a dash. She was sure she set a new record for washing, scrubbing, changing and putting on her makeup. To Mum and Dad, she muttered a quick “I’m going out for dinner love you bye” and disappeared before Mum could comment.

They had fish and chips in Whitby, fresh-caught and piping hot, flaky and crispy. They ate with their hands out of a paper box while leaning against the quayside railings, watching fishermen manoeuvre their trawlers up to the wharf and land their catches, families flocking to the riverside restaurants for dinner, middle-aged pensioners strolling up and down the narrow promenade. Ginny talked about the League and told funny stories about her team-mates; Harry caught her up with Ministry doings and general gossip. And they both gave each other their fullest attention.

“There’s no way we can get the Cup now,” Ginny said, “but we can still get fourth place if we beat Montrose. That’s something. And I’ve had a good season. Gwenog likes me, if Cadwallader retires, I might get a shot at the First Seven. Would’ve been more likely if we got the Cup, but well, fourth isn’t too bad.”

“I’ll be watching,” Harry told her.

Ginny eyed him sidelong. “That’s next weekend. On Wednesday evening, we’ve a friendly against a Spanish club.”

“I’ll be there,” he said again.

“What about your Auror work?” Ginny softened the words with a friendly look of concern.

“I’ve learned something really important. Two, actually. One, as the boss keeps telling me, the investigation won’t go any faster if I stay in the office reading and re-reading case notes. And two,” said Harry with a small smile, “some things are more worth my time.”

It was a good start. That night, Ginny went to bed feeling just a little bit warmer deep inside than she’d had for months.

Exhibition matches – ‘friendlies’ – were a great way for second-string players to show their worth, and Gwenog let them have their fair share of flight time and more, even cycling the Lead Chaser position so each of the second-string had their chance to set the plays. Ginny missed Harry the first half of the game, but he was there in the second half, and spotting him, she whooped right there and then, before she could catch herself.

“Aye, we’re doing alright,” said Alex Trevelyan, flying by and misinterpreting her cheer.

Per Quidditch etiquette, Ginny should have been required to hobnob with the Spanish team afterwards, dinner, drinking, the works; but she slipped away as soon as she had showered and changed, and found Harry. It felt wholly natural to run and fling her arms around him. Then she remembered, and drew back awkwardly. Remembered what aren’t you two now, Ginny? You don’t have the right to casual intimacy like that any more, do you? “Let’s have dinner,” she said quickly, to cover up the moment.

But Harry’s smile was all eagerness. “Let’s.”

It was just late enough in November that the first Christmas markets were open. In Birmingham, Ginny and Harry strolled through a vast square centred on a fountain in which a large bronze woman reclined, the whole space packed tight with marquees and every inch covered with fairy lights and Christmas ornaments. Between Harry’s Dursley-dominated upbringing and Ginny’s wizarding one, everything they saw was new and exciting to them, but they found that they could ask about anything and get a cheerful answer in explanation.

They bought some novelty toys and ornaments; ate sausages, pies, and heavy bread studded with nuts, pieces of dried fruit and marzipan; and drank rich creamy hot chocolate. There was a huge crowd of shoppers so Ginny slipped her arm through Harry’s, laced her fingers through his and held on tight.

Harry beamed down at her, and Ginny’s cheeks flamed warm and red.

She felt like she had never let go.

They didn’t stop holding hands as Harry walked Ginny up the Burrow’s garden path, much later that night.

Nearly at the front door, Ginny turned to face him. Harry suddenly flushed, and looked down at his feet. “Ginny,” he said, a little hoarsely. “What are we?”

Ginny looked down at their hands, feeling herself blushing too. Friends. Really amicable exes. Your best mate’s little sister. On a break. “Better,” she finally said.

Harry came closer, and put one chapped hand on her cheek. “I’ve really, really missed you.”

“Me too,” she whispered. She closed her eyes and pressed her face into his hand, herself against him.

The kiss was gentle, sweet, almost chaste; it tasted of chocolate, and of Harry, of Hogwarts, and hope.

When they parted, his eyes were dancing almost mischievously.

“Next week,” he promised. “I’ll be there.”

Ginny nodded, a kind of goofy half-smile quirking one side of her mouth up. “I know.”

The half-smile had broadened uncontrollably into a full grin by the time she jumped into bed, and stayed as she slept.

The last match of the League was an away game for the Harpies, at the Montrose stadium in northwest Scotland. Last fixtures tended to be anticlimactic, with most placings already having been decided, but this year the Harpies and Magpies were tied for fourth place, making it a match well worth watching… and fighting for. At the fly-off Ginny scanned the stands, and didn’t see Harry. She tried not to think about that, and to focus on the game.

Montrose fought hard for every goal, determined not to lose on home ground, and the score was neck to neck. The famous Scottish weather made its appearance as the afternoon wore on, sometimes freezing and other times merely wet. The ball was slippery and the Harpies fumbled more often than their canny northern opponents, more used to playing in this weather. Ginny subbed in after just twenty minutes, Coach choosing to rest the Harpies’ front line in anticipation of a long game. Each player would take the game in twenty-minute shifts for the rest of the day.

At about four in the afternoon, Ginny scored again, and as she did a victory roll spotted Harry in the Top Box, cheering. She broke into a big smile, and her throwing arm felt a hundred times stronger.

First Seeker Tabitha ‘Tabby’ Lewis caught the Snitch one hour and four Ginny-goals later, to huge cheers from the Visitors’ end of the stadium, and disappointed, polite applause from the Home end. Ginny showered in a dash, pushed past her team-mates and raced to reception. Harry was there, his hair wet and plastered down except for one die-hard tuft at the back.

“Yeh could weel be Harry bliddy Potter fer all ah ken, laddie,” the formidable welcome-witch was telling him, “ah dinnae care; ah’ve nae bin told of noo visitors fer Miss Weasley tae be allowed backstage, so ye kin jist stay oot ‘ere awl night.”

“Harry!” screamed Ginny, flinging herself on him.

“Is ‘e then, fook!”

“Sorry I was late,” said Harry, a little uncertainly.

“Not as late as you usually are, you actually caught some of the game,” teased Ginny. “Come on, I’m starving!”

They bought fish and chips and a bag of deep-fried Mars bar bits from a chippy in Muggle Montrose, and watched anglers fish for flounder and bass on the beach, enjoying the peace, the tranquility, each other. They found a patch of fine sand and sat down, secure in the knowledge that a quick charm would dust off every clinging grain. They ate and talked and watched the life flow around them, and through them.

Ginny solved one mystery that evening.

“I saw you in the stands that day when we got knocked out by the Kestrels,” said Ginny, licking her fingers. “Why didn’t you come find me afterwards?”

Harry sighed. “I wasn’t ready to, yet. I thought you would still be, well... it took me a couple of matches to work up the courage.”

It hurt Ginny almost physically to know this was how far apart they’d drifted in two short months. But they were here now, it all turned out alright in the end. “ I’m glad you did, eventually,” she said.

“So am I.”

Being with Harry awakened an interest in her that she had almost forgotten about – but once ignited, grew stronger and more pressing every passing second. Ginny burrowed into Harry’s side, resting her head on the angle of his shoulder, and placed one small hand on his chest, as if reassuring herself of the thudding, beating life within. Harry on his part was happy to curl his arm around her and hold her tight, his other hand playing almost nonchalantly with the fingers of her free hand, trailing artlessly across her stomach. Every now and then he buried his face in her hair, and Ginny snickered to herself – she knew what a turn-on that was for him.

As last light fell and the beach emptied of fishermen and families, she craned her head back and whispered, “Apparate us back to Grimmauld Place.”

He looked down, his expression suddenly solemn. But Ginny recognised the fire in his eye, and touched her lips gently to the corner of his. “Please,” she said softly.

Their lovemaking was slow, almost ritualistic. Ginny’s hands roamed Harry’s body, touching, caressing, enflaming; Harry laid her down on the bed and oh so slowly reacquainted his lips with every sensitive spot, every pulse point, while Ginny writhed and clutched at his messy hair. When he entered her she gasped and flung her arms around his neck, twined her legs around his ankles. Then the long, slow, familiar dance; Harry rocking her with deliciously-aching regularity, Ginny biting her lip and undulating beneath him in rhythm, foreheads pressed together, half-smiles on their faces, enjoying the sensations of each other’s bodies, drawing out every agonisingly-pleasurable second as long as they could.

At the last, Ginny crushed him close, kissed him so every inch of skin that could was touching, head to toe, and gasped “Oh, Harry!” into his mouth. When she scrunched her eyes shut to the storm of the climax, she felt tears squeeze out.

Afterwards, they lay side by side in bed, still entwined, staring into each other’s eyes, breaths mingling, and Ginny wished she could freeze this moment forever.

A few minutes later, when she felt she had caught her breath enough to actually speak, Ginny said, “Harry, do you know? I love you. I really do love you.”

Harry nodded, said in his serious, quiet way: “I love you too.”

“These past months,” said Ginny, gulping, “it’s been sheer bloody hell. Everything was different… lesser, somehow…”

“It’s been the same for me,” said Harry. “I couldn’t take it. So I just threw myself into the work. I thought – well, I thought if that was it for you and me, then that’s all I have left. But now…”

Now life has meaning again.

Ginny nestled closer into Harry’s side, felt him kiss her forehead gently and wrap his arms around her, and slept, deep and sound and sweet.

* * *

That December was mercifully a slow month, as the holiday mood infected even Quidditch Captains and evil-doers alike.

Perhaps it was the magic of Christmas. Perhaps it was Wizarding Britain being finally tired of war and strife, and finally ready to sit down and discuss their differences peaceably. Or perhaps it was just a Christmas truce, as temporary and fleeting as that famous first one was.

Either way, Harry and Ginny made the most of it. They were not too old to feel jaded yet; there were all the usual rounds of house-decorating, present-buying, dinner-partying; and they set to with enthusiasm. Somewhere along the way they found opportunities to sneak away for more alone time. That was one of the resolutions they had made – to set aside more time to get to know each other.

Brighton Pier was a riot of red, blue and green, crowded with happy holidaymakers and redolent with the smell of the sea, roasting chestnuts, mince pies and sweet treats of all kinds. A church choir perfumed the air with angelic voices, singing timeless messages of faith, hope and love. Harry and Ginny licked ice-creams and strolled arm in arm down the wooden jetty, watching the revellers, inspecting the shop displays, and enjoying being together.

“You know, I bet I could Transfigure that to look like the Hogwarts Express myself,” said Harry, eyeing a breathtakingly-detailed train set in one shop display.

“Who for?” asked Ginny incredulously. “Teddy’s not even three! And you’ve gotten him a huge box of those colourful connectable bricks already – which Andie isn’t likely to thank you for – and stocking stuffers enough to fill a troll’s sock!”

“Yeah, all right,” said Harry, tearing himself away. “I’m sure I could even make it run without batteries...” he muttered.

Ginny snickered. “What, and deprive Dad of the pleasure of messing about with yet another electric toy?” She turned to face him, and said a little more seriously, “Harry – let’s talk.”

They found a quiet spot by the rail, and gazed briefly out into the night-cloaked sea, listening to the waves crashing upon the shore, in stark counterpoint to the bright lights and sounds of festive cheer behind them. Harry looked round at her, unconsciously biting his lip; half his face in shadow, winking Christmas lights reflected off the other half. He looked like a puppy waiting to be scolded, and Ginny repressed a rising urge to kiss him and make him feel better.

Because some things had to be said as well as done. They both knew that now.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” she said. “I shouldn’t have gotten hacked off with you like that, and I was totally unfair to Cho… and you.”

“We both made mistakes,” Harry said quickly, always eager to shoulder blame. “I’m sorry too, sorry I didn’t spend more time with you.”

“Not all of it was your fault. There were times I was just being an unreasonable cow,” admitted Ginny. “I should have been more clear what I wanted from you, and I should have been more understanding when you had to go.”

“I’m sorry about my damn job – I know you hate it and all, and I’ll try to...”

“I don’t,” said Ginny. Harry lifted an eyebrow. “No, really, I don’t. Like I told you before – it’s a really important thing that needs doing, and no-one else is willing, except you, and I know you do it for us both... it’s why I like you so much – it’s why I love you so much.”

He looked earnestly into her eyes. “I love you too, Ginny. Ever since… I dunno, Hogwarts maybe… there’s no-one else. There’s never been anyone else. There isn’t even the thought that there could be anyone else, believe me.”

“I believe you. There’s no-one else for me either. You’re the only one I could ever feel – almost whole with.” Ginny looked down. “When we were… apart… it was terrible. I missed you, missed talking to you, eating with you, even being in a room with you. When we’re together, even when you’re away, it felt different knowing you were, well… mine.”

“Things got pretty grim on my end too,” Harry said. “Ron and Hermione had to pull me out of the dumps a few times. Hermione gave me some great advice.”

“Me too. Smart girl, that,” said Ginny, and they shared a rueful laugh.

Harry squeezed her hands. “Anyway, I’ll tell Robards to give me a little more slack. And I won’t bottle things up so much.We’ll talk things out properly the next time.”

“We will,” said Ginny. Here goes. “We’re going to have to,” she said. Just a tad apprehensively, she took out the folded letter she had received that morning, and had kept re-reading every ten minutes the whole day long. “Because things just got a little more complicated. As usual.”

Harry glanced down, sucked in a breath when he saw the Holyhead Harpies crest embossed across the top. “Is that what I think it is?”

She watched his face anxiously to gauge his reaction. “Cadwallader’s hanging up her broom. And, well… they’ve picked me to replace her.”

“You’re on the First Seven!” breathed Harry. A slow smile formed on his face, growing wider and wider until he was grinning like a schoolboy. “Oh my God, that’s amazing, you’re amazing, Ginny!”

Harry was practically bouncing, and Ginny laughed to see him so excited. How could she ever have doubted his support for her career?He swept her up in his arms, and kissed her, and Ginny found herself lost once again in those sweet, darling lips.

There were chuckles all around them, a couple of whistles, some passing wags called out things like “There ya go love!” and “Steady on, lad!” But neither of them cared.

They broke apart – but only a little way. Harry and Ginny stayed close, wrapped around each other, foreheads touching, connected – one.

To Ginny’s surprise, Harry’s eyes were moist. “You, Ginny,” he said thickly. “You are the future I could never have dreamed of, once. That I thought would never be, for me. You, this, everything. Whatever may come, whatever may happen to us – I want you in my life. If you’ll have me.”

Ginny kissed him again, softly. “There’s nothing I want more.”

Fireworks shrilled into the sky and burst with thundering booms and sharp crackles, bright blossoming flowers of red and blue and green and yellow. Of course, the effects were not as brilliant as that of a Dr. Filibuster or a Weasley Whiz-Bang, nor even the more elaborately-choreographed Muggle firework displays, but there was a touching innocence in its heartfelt simplicity. Cheers and excited shouts went up from the crowd.

Harry and Ginny turned to watch, their arms wrapped around each other, home again at last.

They would never ever leave.

* * *

Oh Christmas lights
Light up the street
Light up the fireworks in me
May all your troubles soon be gone
Those Christmas lights keep shining on.

- Coldplay -

* * *