H.P.

ABOUT HARRY

HEADCANONS

That had gone better than expected.

The open-mouthed gawking, shifting from the dancefloor to the bartender to, eventually, Seamus himself was less accusatory than simply bewildered. Crowds were where Seamus was most at home, the bass that shuddered through the floorboards and ricocheted inside his chest muffled and awash in that same drowned quality that the world only ever took on when thoughts and even the persistent ringing in his ear was crowded out. They were the proverbial sore thumbs amidst a sea of sweat and leather, but the unifying force of the heat of the basement had already begun to claim them; Seamus’s hair drooping into his eyes with the humidity of the room and his shirt beginning to stick to the base of his spine. Seamus had never found a room he couldn’t bluff his way into.

There was no mistaking Harry’s question, even as his words bubbled and floated over the furious beat, a bark of laughter dismissing the seriousness of his tone as Seamus leaned in to yell back, over the crescendo of sound, “Does it matter?”

To him it didn’t. Every anonymous face and body crammed into this basement couldn’t care less about who they were or where they came from. They might care about the state of Harry’s shoes, but that would just require a bit of misdirection. Peeling his own jacket off to combat the flush of warmth creeping up his spine he leaned in closer to Harry to be better heard.

“When’s the last time that nobody knew who you were?” earned a sidelong glance from the bartender and a mouthed, “He replaced Robbie in Take That,” which earned a bemused double-take as he shook their drinks, like he was trying to picture it, and with the warm buzz of earlier pints fizzing it’s way straight to his head, Seamus found he didn’t really care.  

(It was becoming increasingly difficult, lately, to remind himself that sometimes he should.)

Two highballs, already sweating with condensation, thunked down upon the bar between them Seamus reached over to shove one unceremoniously into Harry’s hand, the spill of garnish and tiny umbrella and lurid colour a cheerful distraction from the subterfuge that had led them there. “Trust me,” were two famous words that couldn’t be trusted from Seamus’s lying mouth, but he cheersed the bartender and clinked his glass against Harry’s. “This will help.”

Does it matter? No, Harry supposed hazily, it did not, although this thought was accompanied by a duller pang of apprehension. 

If anyone -- if he was recognised... Merlin, don’t go there. If he had another drink he’d be able to drown that lurking, shadowy sensation in the back of his mind that tended to wear the faces of Hermione, Ron, and lately, Ginny. He’d tell them. One day. Soon. But now, a drink.

He couldn’t deny that Seamus was making an unreasonable amount of sense, even through the fug of cologne, sweat, and -- for some reason -- glitter. The music thumped through them; where Harry’s arm was pressed to Seamus’, he could feel the heat of Seamus’ skin.

The two drinks were outrageous and made Harry feel lightheaded just from looking at them. He shot Seamus a hapless look, but he was busy sharing a grin with the bartender (who, Harry noted, appeared not to mind Seamus’ interest). Harry automatically clinked their glasses, then peered into its lurid depths.

“I’m not going to remember my name after these, am I?” Harry asked rhetorically. He steeled himself, then took a tentative slurp through a swirly straw. The drink tasted vaguely like coconut, although Harry -- having been on more than a few benders with Ron -- detected rum. He swallowed thickly and blinked in the aftermath.

“Wow.” Harry surreptitiously coughed. “That’s -- okay.”

The music seemed to get louder. Colours, faces. Harry realised he was ogling a particularly tall, sandy-haired man over Seamus’ shoulder and looked away, flushing. When he met Seamus’ gaze, he pitched his voice over the club burble: “How’d you know about this place anyway? This is, I mean...” 

Embarrassment caught his tongue. But Seamus was waiting, so Harry forged ahead.

“Yes. As you’ve said many times. You live here. How, Potter?” His aggravation was rising, the glittering shield separating them flickering as Draco spoke, eyes locked upon the wand still aimed at him. “Are you going to hex me or not? The anticipation of my eventual demise by your hand, while thrilling, is passé.” 

Knowing he was acting foolishly, stupidly, perhaps throwing himself to the wolves in a manner unbecoming with the person Draco was trying desperately to force himself to grow into (and drag himself away from the person who accepted there was no future in store for him), he dropped his shield charm and waited with bated breath for the pain of a curse to come. It was what his Ministry Minder said, wasn’t it? Trusting others was not inherently dangerous. Even if that trust was being given to the wrong sort.

When the silence between them filled the front hall that had to be dimming if his squinting eyes were any indication, Draco let out a very long exasperated sigh. Like it pained him to be waiting any longer. It did pain him. It stretched the limits of his patience. It dug under his skin to be treated like an intruder in a dwelling of his birthright. Sweets and treats and praise he deserved upon entrance to this dusty shit-hole were no where to be found. “Well?” He asked, right hand twitching toward his jacket. “Open the doors. You can’t expect me to look while locked in here, can you? And it’s not a box. It’s a jewelry box. If any old box would do, I wouldn’t have come.”

Malfoy’s act was transparent, but the longer Harry kept his wand pointed at his pale throat, the more he wondered what his end goal was here. To illustrate that the decision could change in a moment, Harry lowered his wand in degrees.

“My godfather left this place to me,” Harry replied reluctantly, keeping his eyes narrowed. His wand arm dropped to his side but he kept his wrist taut -- just in case. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

He must be mad. Anyone else would have turfed Malfoy back out onto the street by now. Although the reason why the wards let Malfoy inside in the first place remained a mystery, Harry knew that his luck meant that Malfoy would tumble out arse-over-tit right into the laps of the Prophet dogs who camped outside Grimmauld Place rain, hail, or shine. POTTER’S SECRET TRYST WITH EX-DEATH EATER? Harry didn’t want to tempt Skeeter -- not today, anyway.

Harry sighed and, eyeing Malfoy as if he were about to leap at him, he jerked his chin towards the far side of the foyer, where a shadowy door led onto the sitting room Harry had been cleaning. “You can start in there,” he muttered, “all the junk in this house seems to end up in one cabinet. Dunno why.” 

They glowered at each other. The doors remained firmly closed. Harry glanced at one and loudly thought OPEN UP, YOU STUPID THING. It did not. His eyes flicked back to Malfoy, whose single raised eyebrow was as presumptuous and judgmental as if Harry had barked like a dog.

Given Harry’s rather unfortunate ability to amass a crowd wherever he went, he didn’t go outside much. Someone charitable might say this meant he kept to himself; in reality, he lived under a rock. Even he, however, knew about the All-Hallow’s Eve thing in Diagon Alley -- call it masochism, but he had the Prophet delivered every morning and hate-read it over his coffee -- and so he’d clumped together a series of disguise charms and turned up, red-haired and freckled, to heaving crowds of tipsy mayhem.

Harry procured a cup of spiced rum and entertained himself by people watching. He was lurking in an empty doorway, safely away from the tide of people calling to one another and laughing. A few too many had opted for billowing black cloaked costumes that made his heart beat a little too quickly. 

It must have been the rum, because when someone bumped his shoulder and came to rest beside him in the doorway, he shot them a smile and, on impulse, said, “D’you think they’re dressed up as Death Eaters or Voldemort? I can’t tell which one is worse.”

Ron didn’t know which answer would make him feel worse - yes, she was “shopping around,” or no, she wasn’t and would rather disappear than speak to him - but Harry tiptoed carefully around both of them. Ron sat silently on his broom, giving a particularly tall tuft of grass a small, absentminded kick. He was reminded of kneeling in the snow in the Forest of Dean, heart raw and laid bare without his consent; this felt eerily similar, but at least he didn’t have to contend with any horcruxes this time around. 

Harry was trying to be mindful, trying not to widen a gap that he had only just learned was much larger than he thought. Ron sensed it, understood it, but at the same time he wondered if he was holding back. It was hard to believe Hermione would have let their conversation go there, but if it had, would Harry tell him? Did he want Harry to tell him? 

A sigh slid out from between his lips and he straightened, dragging a hand through his hair. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, his tone unconvincing. “I guess I just…thought she felt the same, and now…” He trailed off, still keeping his gaze everywhere but on Harry.  “Now I don’t even see her, you know? And neither do you. And I feel like I’ve fucked all of it up.”

Harry and Ron had waded into emotional territory a handful of times in their friendship. Mostly, it had been after a row, and they’d needed to clear the air. Of course, they’d always had Hermione in the background to chivvy them along or to make pointed suggestions while pretending she was having nothing to do with it. The point was: Harry wasn’t entirely sure how to navigate this vulnerable version of Ron. He understood every other facet of Ron’s personality - his brashness, his anger, his brilliant humour - but feelings were something they had tacitly agreed, long ago, to rarely deal with. There wasn’t any need, not when, again, they had Hermione around to remind them they were being thick.

5th October 1999

Ginny,

Look, I know cocked things up when you came ‘round. As I said when you were here, I’ve got no excuse. But I’m still sorry. You’re completely right and I shouldn’t have been so pig-headed about the whole breaking up thing. And I’m sorry I still don’t know how to say that in a way that doesn’t trivialise what we’ve been through. I’ve never been good at expressing how I feel.

It’s ironic that I’m the one now sending you letters... so I understand if you don’t reply. You’ll probably do one better than me, though, and at least read this, so that has to count for something (?).

I hope that we can be friends again. Not now, and not even any time soon. I’m just putting it out there. I totally get it if you’d rather hex me into next year.

See you around I hope

“Was that an attempt at humor?” Draco was sneering. Trying to hide just how baffled he was, thrown for a loop at whatever it was that Potter was trying to do. None of this calculated to something near sense or whatever it was that went on in the head of the man who still had his wand drawn out. “Black blood.” Though he would venture a majority of the charms found within the Malfoy estate would be found here as well. Or perhaps worse methods of pureblood verification. Draco’s wand stayed lowered as he dodged to his right, a non-verbal shielding charm doing little to still the rapid way his eyes darted between Potter’s wand and face. “You’re unhinged.” Probably not the best thing to spat out but Draco couldn’t exactly go about sending off hexes of his own. Couldn’t even try to shoot off a jelly-legged jinx if he wanted to (and he wanted to do more than that). It was pathetic. The other man had to know that, hadn’t he? He probably set up the arrangement of Draco’s entire parole and sentencing. Laughing to himself at the fate he was putting upon his Hogwarts rival. 

Just as he considered dropping his wand, for how could the ever do-gooder Harry Potter dream of striking someone who was unarmed (even if that someone was Draco, he hoped) the doors to the rooms around them slammed shut in unison. “It’s you.” The proverbial lamp had been lit, Draco suddenly understanding what the hell had cast a shadow upon his Great Aunt’s home. “You’ve been living here. And you think I’m–” A laugh, higher pitched than he enjoyed sounding in public, left him though it didn’t do much to wash the incredulous glimmer from his eyes. “I didn’t know you’ve been–” His free hand waffled between them and the shimmering shield of his own making, an eyebrow raising at Potter’s still drawn wand. “–occupying Grimmauld.” It would be pushing his luck, to put his wand back in his jacket pocket. To rid himself of one of the only defenses he only half-had in this prick measuring contest but Draco did so anyway, holding his hands up in innocence as he waited for the other’s to drop. His posture growing sharper and his chin titled upwards in defense. “Not that it’s any of your concern but I’m taking a jewelry box of my mother’s in for repair. She believes pieces of it are in storage here. What’s your excuse?”

The slight gleam in the air around Malfoy indicated a wordless shield charm. Interesting. Harry couldn’t exactly blame Malfoy - he had just ‘accidentally’ fired a hex, after all - but the action betrayed a sense of uncertainty to whatever simmered beneath that cool, sneering mask.

It was a sad state of affairs that when the doors simultaneously slammed shut, Harry didn’t flinch. Grimmauld Place had been carrying on ever since he turned up with his trunk and Firebolt a year ago. The runner thing was a bit weird, but maybe it was just as he joked: pure blood meant literally rolling out the red carpet.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. You’ve been living here. Why would Malfoy care where he lived? More to the point, why was it such a big deal? Sirius had left this house to Harry, no one else. As far as he was concerned, Malfoy was trespassing. The Ministry would see it that way too (though Harry was uncomfortably aware that the Ministry would likely believe any version of the story Harry put forward: why take the word of a former Death Eater when you’ve got Boy Wonder testifying otherwise?). All this brought him to another, probably more important question...

How the hell did Malfoy get past his wards?

Harry’s jew flexed, but he lowered his wand incrementally. He wasn’t stupid enough to retire it completely - it remained hovering at Malfoy’s chest - but he hoped the gesture would indicate something of a... alright, truce was putting it too generously.

Investigating the state of his familial home (figuring out what that horrid shade painted on the walls was) would have to wait, if Potter’s wand had anything to say about it. Draco paled at his old enemy’s advance, stare darting towards the wand for a few moments as he considered just how deadly another quip would be (for the ridiculousness of the situation was still overwhelming him) before he met Potter’s eyes. A wide-eyed look of apprehension at seeing an intensity he hadn’t anticipated. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

An overactive mind, paranoia bred out of living in a home where trust had ceased to exist when there was the Dark Lord’s favor to curry instead, didn’t aide Draco in the mission of staying harmonious. He had never not allowed Potter under his skin, the brash git had made a career out of it. “Give you a reason to what exactly? I far prefer when we do this in a bathroom. It makes the clean up easier, not that these floors haven’t seen spills before.” And if his voice shook worse than his wand hand, what did it matter? 

A range of possibilities fanned out before him. Potter was goading him, for a larger scheme. He regretted speaking up at Draco’s trial and this was his big plan to reconcile that. One spell that fell more on the side of shadowed arts would break his parole, self-defensive be damned. It didn’t matter that Potter was an intruder, he was Potter. The Chosen One wouldn’t be held liable over a duel. The Death Eater would. Draco would be put back under house arrest and he couldn’t– would not live trapped in that prison of a house any longer. Or was this not a plot at all? Had he finally snapped? Mad batty Potty finally had enough and he had sought Draco out to do him in. He knew what the papers said of Potter even if he didn’t wish to. Discussion of him was far too frequent to miss. No public appearances. No grand career with the Aurors as speculated. Just utter madness from the heat of the spotlight his entire life. 

He hadn’t noticed it at first, a shadowed movement rolling down the stairs behind Potter, but the steady quiet thumping broke through his trepidation. Worse, it calmed his heart rate. Eyes still alight, skin still a worrisome pallor, the corners of Draco’s mouth turned up as he slowly lowered his wand, though he didn’t lessen his white knuckled grip on it. “The runner.” He had waited until it was nearly on Potter’s heels, the moth-eaten woven rug making a determined path right through their feet to meet its goal of stretching all the way to the front door. Draco over exaggerated his movement, nothing sudden about his side-step out of the runner’s path. “The house let me in. You don’t honestly– Merlin, I’ve forgotten just how thick you could be. Must be all the articles praising your eccentric brilliance as a hermit. I apologize for not greeting you in the manner you must be accostmented to.” His own sense of self preservation should have been greater than this. Always the exception for Potter. “Great Wonderful Savior Potter, I ask again, what the hell do you think you’re doing pointing your wand at me and why in the world are you under the assumption that this is your home? Have you been hexed? Cursed? Hit on the head with an especially heavy object? It would certainly explain the look on your face.” Swiftly, all the seeker’s speed he still possessed, the gold key was put back into his pocket. “None of your business, is it?”

The runner snaked behind Harry and caught on the back of his trainers. He glanced down and stumbled in place, though his wand remained more or less aimed at Malfoy’s skinny throat. They watched as it rolled slowly past them, across the foyer and into the darkened corridor that ran to the front door. When it slipped from sight, Harry and Malfoy made eye contact, and Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Guess it can smell pure blood,” he remarked drily.

Malfoy’s monologue did little to staunch Harry’s rising tide of irritation. Every time he put a slight emphasis on your house, Harry’s hackles rose even further. This had to be another one of Malfoy’s stupid, mean-spirited tricks. Oh yes, ha-ha, let’s gatecrash Grimmauld Place and stick it into Pottyhead one more time. Hilarious.

Malfoy continued to burble. Before he knew what he was doing, Harry flicked his wand and a wordless hex sprang forth, red sparks glittering in the gloom, to shoot past Malfoy’s left ear and scorch the wallpaper over his shoulder. Just enough to get him to shut the fuck up. And who could have guessed it - Malfoy’s mouth snapped shut, though with it went something gold that had caught Harry’s eye.

The thing that pissed Ginny off the most wasn’t what he was saying or that it had taken him ages to say it. What irritated her the most was that despite how angry she was, there was still part of her that ached when Harry ached. Her right hand twitched slightly where it rested on the table and if she wasn’t thinking about it so hard, she knew she would have reached for one of Harry’s without meaning to. As it was, she curled that hand into a fist to take away the temptation and rapped the wood with her knuckles just for something to do with that hand.

 I don’t know anything.

“You can say that again.” Her voice had evened out again. It was like actually hearing it from his mouth had made the situation real. It wasn’t like Ginny had showed up on his front porch expecting things to be fine. She knew from very early on that it wasn’t. But that didn’t make it any easier. 

She did want him. Even after everything they’d been through, separately and together,  Ginny wanted him. Not Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, but just Harry, the boy who’d captained their Quidditch team to a second straight championship, who made her laugh until her sides her, who told Ron once that he couldn’t stop them being together if they wanted to be. She shouldn’t want him now that he was the man who ignored her for the better part of a year, but her stomach was twisted in on itself and her heart was in her throat anyway. It sucked. Pushing off with her hands, Ginny stood so abruptly that she knocked her chair over. He’d said something that made the switch flip from brewing melancholy back to fiery anger, and for that she was kind of grateful.

“Right,” she said, staring down at him from behind a curtain of red hair. “Whatever it is, it’s not something that had to wait all this time. I wasn’t waiting around for you or anything. I’m not stupid.” She watched him for another moment before turning to go, pausing only to reach for her wand so that the chair she’d upturned righted itself. It was easier to say it when she wasn’t looking at him. “Next time you break up with a girl, do it as soon as you decide you don’t want to be with her, alright?" 

And with a crack, she Disapparated from Grimmauld Place (and if she wound up outside the pub a block down from her flat in Holyhead, so be it. A drink or six wouldn’t hurt her.)

Ron’s ears turned scarlet and a splotchy flush began to creep up the back of his neck. Still hovering in mid-air, he sank downward, swinging a leg over to sit sideways on his broomstick. His long legs dangled - it looked like he’d found a very tall bench to sulk on - and he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the toes of his trainers, hovering just above the overgrown grass below. 

First, there was compassion. An appreciation for Harry swelled in his chest, and he couldn’t deny that he was touched by the prospect of being defended.

Then, embarrassment. Why did he need to be defended? Especially in front of a girl he never thought he would need to be defended from?

He tossed Harry’s words around in his head, unable to stop himself from zeroing in on one very specific part. Silence stretched between them, but in time Ron glanced up, his voice low as he asked, “D'you think that’s what she’s doing? ‘Shopping around?’”

Ron’s abrupt silence felt as bad as if he’d shouted. Harry would have preferred that - at least he understood anger. But Ron was so rarely completely quiet that it was fundamentally unnerving, and it made Harry feel as if he’d made yet another mistake in so many days.

Harry kept his eyes on Ron but picked at the stitching on the old, well-worn Quaffle. When Ron finally looked up, his ears pink, Harry held his gaze for only a moment before dropping it to study the toes of his trainers. After a beat, he looked back up and pressed his lips together.

“I dunno, mate,” he replied, tossing the Quaffle once and lowering his Firebolt so he could straddle it. The broom rose a meter or so, leaving Harry’s legs to dangle, feet skimming the spongy grass. “We really didn’t get that far. I gathered she wanted to -- try her options.” 

Hey Harry. Yeah, I kinda really blew it with that one… Things just sort of got busy and well, I don’t know I’ll have to ask Ginny how it went next time I see her. Has it really been that long? I want to brush it off and say we’re both busy but,  that seems like a bit of a cop out. I haven’t been too good with keeping up either though, so you aren’t alone. I’d love to change that. Things have been alright. Busy. Hoping you’re doing okay?

Cop out or not, it’s the truth. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired and it’s been a year. You’d think I’d’ve slept enough for a dozen lifetimes by now. What have you been up to? Professor McGonagall owled me the other day to tell me several posts at Hogwarts have opened up (I’ve been trying to read my post - long story, but suffice to say I’ve got a lot of letters to write). I think that was her pointed suggestion that war heroes would be welcome in the school staff room. Not sure I’m up for the job. But I know how much you liked Professor Sprout. Anyway, thought I’d pass it on in case you’re interested.

I’m not fantastic, to be honest, but it could be worse. That’s my motto from now on. ‘At least I’m not dead; could be worse’. If you’re ever in London come ‘round for a cuppa. I’m usually home and if you do enough of a song and dance the house might let you in. No guarantees though. This place has a mind of its own.

I’d like to see you. If you’ve got time.

“Explain then. I’d love an explanation. I deserve one. You kissed me because we thought we might die and then you disappeared on me.” Ginny stared at Harry.  She held his gaze. She felt like she deserved what Ron had gotten. It might nott have been easy, but at least her brother knew where he and Hermione stood. Ginny had spent months wondering. And as those months dragged on, she’d begun to realize that their fairy tale ending was probably just that- wishful thinking. The world wasn’t as simple as it was in the stories her Mum and Dad used to read her when she was small. It was more complicated than that. There was war and loss and pain and they all had to deal with that. Just because Harry had kissed her before running off to maybe die trying to save the world didn’t mean that they were destined to be together, much as Molly may have wished it did.

Still, Ginny wanted him to look her in the eye and just tell her…what he wanted. Being in limbo like this wasn’t doing anyone any good. Her parents asked about him sometimes and she didn’t know what to say to them. Her frieends knew her well enough not to ask, mostly, but her new teammates? They were curious. She’d brushed them off pretty easily by saying they were on a break, which wasn’t even a lie. Not really. But when media members started asking, she’d lost her temper. Asked if they asked players on teams that weren’t all women about their love lives. The manager had barred her from taking interviews for a while after that.

She didn’t need to know everything that was going on in Harry’s head, but she did need to know what they were doing. Or not doing. Ginny’s tea was going cold as she watched him processing. 

Harry looked younger just then. Like the boy she’d first caught sight of on the platform while seeing her older brothers off to school. Godric, things had been so much simpler then. When it was just a schoolgirl crush that had no chance of going anywhere, Ginny was safe. Once she caught real feelings, it was harder to deal with. She could have loved him. (Maybe she did. Maybe she does. She doesn’t like to think about it too hard.)

“See?” She laughed humorlessly. “Was that so hard? You could have put that in a letter, you know,” Ginny said, irritated that her voice cracked a bit on the end. She was not going to cry in front of Harry Potter. She was old enough that a breakup shouldn’t make her feel so terrible about herself, but, then, she’d always been the one doing the breaking before. Her cheeks were definitely splotched red, too, and she felt the telltale pressure behind her eyes. She pressed her palms flat on the table and made to get up but hesitated, looking across at him, resignation written across her face.

“Was that all? Ginny waited a beat. “Or do you have more to say?” She wasn’t sure which answer she’d hate less.

The crack in Ginny’s voice made Harry wince guiltily. He was never good at tears. If Ginny started crying - which was unlikely; she was too angry - but if she did, he’d certainly cement himself a reputation as the most unfeeling sod who ever got to snog Ginny Weasley.

Harry bit his lip and stared at his cooling tea, resisting the urge to mentally monologue and instead convert his feelings into words. This had never been his strong suit. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. But some version of the truth would be enough for now. Maybe later, when he was brave enough to admit his feelings to her, she’d be able to understand. He hoped.

“I can try to explain,” Harry started, voice pitched low and earnest. He looked up into Ginny’s eyes and tried to focus on the flicker of sadness he glimpsed there. Because, at the heart of it, they did care for each other. It was just too adolescent and premature to ever be something more. Harry steeled himself.

“After the Battle, I couldn’t think straight. I volunteered for everything because I couldn’t bear to be alone with my thoughts. The nightmares -- What I saw in the Forest,” Harry said abruptly, picking his way between dreams and reality as if he were a shadow in the fog, “stayed with me in a way that I hadn’t anticipated. It fucked me up, Gin. So, for a while, all I could do was keep myself busy. But then everyone kept asking my opinion on -- on everything. What to do about Hogwarts, the trials, Kingsley always going on about how fantastic an auror I’d be... It pissed me off,” he admitted, “and it was a lot of bloody pressure. No one seemed to realise that I was exhausted. Fucking exhausted. I needed time and space and no one would give it to me. So, I had to take it for myself.”

Harry motioned at the kitchen around them. “Sirius left me this place. I didn’t find out for a few months after the Battle. It’s horrible. I’m pretty sure the house hates me or something… but it’s the only place I can be alone.” Harry heard the quiver in his voice and hated it. “And what I need, right now, is to be alone, just so I can figure out what the hell I’ve gone through. I’ve never stopped and wondered about what saving the Wizarding World meant,” Harry confessed, “until I did it. And then I realised what a monumental mistake on my part that was. Professor Dumbledore…” The name made his heart twinge painfully. “I realised that he only ever told me what I needed to know. He basically kept me in the dark. Everyone thinks – or thought, whatever – that I have the answers. But I don’t.” He was surprised to find that his eyes were prickling, and he grit his teeth against an alarmingly strong tide of frustration at his inability to keep it together. “I don’t know anything.”

“I know. She sends them to all of us who don’t live at home anymore. Hasn’t Ron told you?” There was a little bit of an edge in her voice. Of course Ginny knew that her youngest brother had still been seeing each other quite frequently. It was a bit of a sore spot for her, given that Ron had been her best friend first (at the tender age of ten, sure, but it still mattered!) and that Harry was, well, Harry and that Ginny’s feelings for him, albeit a confusing mess right now, had been there for just as long. She’d always been a bit jealous of the pair of them and how close they were and it had only really calmed down when she found her own group of friends to restart secret organizations with. It still kind of bugged her, though.

Ginny busied herself with preparing her tea, adding so much cream and sugar she wouldn’t be able to taste the bitterness of the leaves. There was enough of that emanating off of her as it was. She paused with a sugar cube halfway to her cup when Harry said he was a coward, only dipping her chin slightly to acknowledge that yes, he had been. Her first instinct was to cut him off. Growing up with six brothers meant that she sometimes never got a word in edgewise during an argument, but she and Harry were alone now. She could let him say his piece before jumping all over him. Probably.

Even though she was still angry with him, there was a little pang in her chest as he fumbled through an explanation. That just sounded so lonely. Ginny couldn’t imagine it. Being alone now was just asking for trouble, dreams of basilisks and boys who wrote pretty prose in diaries, Death Eaters and fallen friends. She avoided it at all costs. She couldn’t wrap her head around wanting to be by yourself. She almost said so.

Instead, Ginny lifted her chin from her arms, sat up straight, and took a sip of tea before saying “You only ignore some people, from what I can gather.” Behind the fiery words was a bit of sadness. Harry had been (was still…) important to her. And she was beginning to realize that maybe the feeling wasn’t as mutual as she’d once thought.

“So,” she said with mock cheerfulness as she set her teacup on the saucer in front of her. “Is this the part where you officially dump me or what?”

Anger radiated from Ginny in waves. It’d always been like this: stand too close to Ginny and you usually started to burn. Harry had loved it, once. Now it was more than a reproach; it ignited something akin to animal fear in Harry, as if they were two magnets at opposite poles. It was his fault that she didn’t understand what was going on with him.

The clink of china punctuated her point. Harry met and held Ginny’s brown eyes. His hand tightened around his cup, and he could feel his pulse thump nervously in his throat.

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. If he cocked this up now, he could wave goodbye to any sort of friendship with Ginny. Of course, that was being charitable, given that once she found out why he they couldn’t be together, he’d also probably be waving goodbye to the whole Weasley clan. Mrs Weasley, eyes gleaming as she made coy remarks about wedding bells; Mr Weasley, calling him son. Harry couldn’t lose any of that. If he did, he would be an orphan all over again. And Ron - Merlin help him, Ron. Ron would string him up and use his rib bones to beat him black and blue. If Ron ever, ever realised that Harry was not only gay, but that he’d inadvertently been stringing Ginny along out of his bloody cowardliness, they would never speak again.

Harry had been silent for too long. God knew how that was playing out for Ginny; she probably thought he was constructing some kind of eloquent break-up speech. As he searched her face with increasing trepidation, awkwardness built between them. This is torture, he thought in panic. I’m dead no matter what I do.

“You’re right,” Harry said quietly, still holding Ginny’s gaze. “I am only ignoring a few people. But it has nothing to do you, and everything to do with what I can handle at the moment. I’m --” Harry cut himself off, irritated.

“Sorry. I’m trying -- I know you don’t want excuses. I just need to figure out how to explain...” Fuck, no. Abort. Don’t go there. “What I’m trying to say is...”

Was breaking up with Ginny the smartest move available to him? What else could he possibly say? ‘Sorry, Ginny, turns out I’m bent’? A clean break would be easier to deal with than the truth. And Mr and Mrs Weasley might hate him, but they’d come ‘round. They had to. Mrs Weasley loved him. Didn’t she?

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose with one quivering hand.