#hpshipweek

Her eyes glance over at the clock as it the numbers flip to 22:00. And then, like magic, she hears the familiar pop. She peers out the window and he’s there, looking up at her from behind the tree in her front yard, a half-smile slowly curving. She can’t help but return it and suddenly she’s running down the stairs as quickly as she possibly can without being too loud. Then the door is being burst open and she’s outside, the cool summer air hitting her skin, but Ron’s arms are quickly enveloping her in warmth.

“Hey,” he murmurs quietly as she sighs into her shoulder.

A few deep breaths, in and out and in again and she pulls away enough to look at him. “Hi,” she whispers shakily, and he tilts his head down so that their eyes are at level.

“Not good?”

She licks her lips and has to look away for a moment to recollect herself. “Better.”

He sighs and pulls her closer again. “Better’s good,” she hears him say, his voice hopeful, an attempt to be reassuring, and she lets herself smile slightly.

“I suppose.”

“It’ll take time, but it’ll happen, Hermione.”

“I know.” I think. I hope.

“What happened?”

She looks up at him again. “Nothing, really. We just had dinner, watched some football, Arsenal lost… then they went to bed at nine.”

“That’s it?” he seems surprised, and she knows that as much as he wants to, he doesn’t quite understand.

“That’s it.” That’s the problem.

“They didn’t say anything?”

“Just goodnight.” Her lip begins to quiver and suddenly Ron is blurry, blocked by tears that are spilling down her cheeks. “Oh, Ron, I’ve ruined everything! Everything’s so quiet and polite now and it’s like we don’t even know how to act around each other! They’re not angry, they don’t yell, but we just don’t know what to do with each other anymore! Arsenal lost and Dad didn’t even say anything and when I was little he would scream at the TV but he was just silent and it’s all my fault, Ron, I--”

“Hermione,” Ron begins, then stops. It’s enough for her to stop talking, though. He seems to be struggling with what to say, the way to say it. Finally, he thinks he’s got enough to continue. “You… it’s not your fault, all right?”

She presses her lips together to prevent a sob from escaping, then leans her forehead against his chest, looking down at their shoes, gently touching on the grass. She feels him tighten his grip on her and she closes her eyes, grateful for the security and strength he is providing her just by being there.

But-- “It is.”

“It’s not.”

“I changed their memories--”

She feels him stiffen. “You had no ruddy choice!” he exclaims.

“It was my choice to leave them each summer, to put everything else before them, to be so selfish and not even-”

“Hermione, you’re talking bollocks,” he says, so bluntly that she is pulled out of her self-deprecating as she looks up at him. “You had to. You’re…” he’s fumbling for the words again, and he sighs, looking up at the night sky. The stars are glinting down at them. “You’re the least selfish person I’ve ever known, I…” he looks back down at her in his arms. “Don’t ever think of yourself like that, alright?”

There’s such an earnest expression in his eyes that she can’t help but believe every word he’s saying.

“Yeah, you haven’t been around as much over the years, but you had no choice. Your best friend was fighting a mental wizard and only you had the brains to help him,” they both let out soft laughs, “other people needed you, and you had to put everything else before--”

“--them--”

“--yourself.”

They’re quiet for a moment.

“I could tell you missed them. Every time you got a letter from them and you’d put everything -- even your ruddy Arithmancy -- aside to answer it. And when you told me you weren’t going to come to the Burrow early last summer, because I knew you were going to take care of them and you needed to get some strength from them before you could do anything. When you finally arrived…” his voice fades away and they both recall how, upon arrival, she had flung her arms around him, normal embarrassment thrown completely out of the window, and sobbed into his shoulder for a good hour. “I know it killed you to do what you did. I know how much it ate away at you until you finally reversed the spell. But you did it because you had to, and you’re amazing, Hermione, you really are. I would never be able to think of what you did and do it the way you did, but you’re so strong and it… it just… you’re amazing, alright?”

She gives him a soft, watery smile in gratitude and then glances down at the ground again. “But they hate me.”

“They don’t hate you,” he immediately says.

“We barely talk, they want nothing to do with me--”

“They love you,” he says, with a voice so firm that she immediately stops. “You all need to just… grow back together, or something? They know what you did, they know why you did that, but they need to just… sort through it. And it’s been a while since you guys have been able to just be without all the rubbish that’s been happening these past few years and you all need some time to just get back into… normal.”

She’s looking at him now, and she knows he can see everything that she’s thinking. She’s letting it all shine through her eyes, how in awe she is of him, how much she appreciates him, how much she loves him. She knows he knows because, even in the dark of the night, with only the streetlights illuminating their surroundings, she can see his ears are red, and the sight of something so… normal… is so reassuring and wonderful that she stands up on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around his neck, breathing him in.

“Thank you,” she whispers ever so softly, but she knows Ron’s heard her.

“Anytime,” he finally replies, and there’s an intensity in his voice that lets her know he means it with every fibre of his being.

“When did you get so… mature?” she finally gets out, and then lets out a soft laugh as she traces the light stubble on his face, rough yet softly reassuring, a reminder that he is real and there.

“When I came back,” he says simply, she pauses in her tracing to meet his gaze. He swallows nervously, but continues. “I… after I destroyed the locket, I realised that all the things I’d been thinking had all been in my head, and it was like I was… free, in a way… I knew that you didn’t understand yet, but I was no longer afraid that you didn’t love me - as a friend or whatever - because I knew you did in some way. And I knew that you were angry, and hurt, and a bunch of other things that killed me because I knew I did all that to you, but I knew that you didn’t hate me, even though it felt like you did, even though you thought you did.”

“I didn’t,” she breathed, remembering how much she had willed herself to hate him, because things would have been so much easier if she did.

“I knew you needed time, and that we needed time, but I knew it would get better. And it did.” He tilts his head, gesturing between them, evidence of how much better things could get. “This is a lot more than I’d expected though,” he says, letting out a quiet laugh.

She smiles back at him, feeling so grateful for him, for them.

“They’ll come around, Hermione. If they’re anything like you - which they are, because you’re their daughter - and you’re able to forgive a git like me for what I did, then they’ll be able to grow back together with you, their daughter who gave up everything to protect them.”

She doesn’t know what to say, except, “I love you.”

He doesn’t say anything, but she can tell by the way his eyes widen slightly and his gaze grows in intensity and his grip on her tightens like he’s worried that she’ll evaporate into thin air or that he’ll wake up any moment that her words have touched him. They always do, just like his do when he says the same to her.

“Do you want to come over tomorrow night?” she finds herself saying, and as the words escape her she realises it wouldn’t be that bad of an idea.

He pauses uncertainly. “Are you sure?”

“I think it’d be good,” she says honestly. “They really like you, you know. I can tell.” He blushes, but she knows he’s grateful to her for saying that, and a little relieved. “Dad can talk to you about football, and Mum can make you roast potatoes. I don’t know how fun that’d be for you, but--”

“I’d love it,” he says honestly.

“I think it’d be good,” she repeats, for both of them. “It’ll feel… normal.”

His fingers gently move up and down her back, stroking her softly, so softly that she knows he’s not even realising he’s doing it. “Yeah,” is all he can say.

They’ve been serious for too long. “And,” she adds, a real, full, genuine smile beginning to spread on her face, “when they go to bed we can always snog on the sofa for awhile.”

His eyes light up and he’s grinning. “Now that’s really not a bad idea.”

“So tomorrow night then?” she says, almost shyly.

“Yeah,” he immediately says. “Tomorrow night.”

And suddenly he’s kissing her, outside her house in the quiet London street, and she feels a delicious sensation that reminds her of the wonderful fact that she’s alive and there and so is he and that they’ve made it. She feels like a teenager, finally, and she feels a thrilling rush of love and hope as she holds him closer.

Ginny harrumphed from inside the box and attempted to pull herself out, but failed. "Can I get a little help here?" she called out.  

Laughing, Harry kicked off his shoes and climbed up on the bed behind her. "Stop squirming," he said, tapping her bum lightly as she continued to struggle, "or you are going to fall in completely." He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her out of the box, dragging her back with him so they both landed with a bounce on the bed.

Ginny flipped over on top of Harry and gave him a quick kiss. "Thanks," she said, avoiding his wandering hands and jumping off the bed, dragging Harry up with her. Harry pouted, but followed her anyway.

"What are you doing?" he asked, peeking into the box and seeing a jumbled mess of items.

Ginny sighed. "I put everything from my bedroom at home into that one box, and now I'm starting to think it was a bad idea: I can't find a thing."

Harry thought for a moment. "Well, there is only one thing for it," he said. He took out his wand and levitated the box over the bed, and then upended it, emptying its contents completely onto the crumpled sheets.

The bed was now hidden under a mountain of clothes, parchments, posters, and other bric-a-brac. Ginny bit her lip, trying to figure out where to start. "I suppose I should sort it all out, I sort of dumped my entire closet and desk in there, so who knows what I'll find."

As Ginny starting sifting through the pile, Harry promised to bring nourishment, and returned to the kitchen to get the food.

When he returned, chopsticks deep in a carton of lo mein, it was to find Ginny sitting cross legged against the wall, laughing hysterically as she flipped through a small book.

"What've you got there?" Harry asked through a mouthful of noodles as he settled himself down next to her.

"I'll only show you if you promise not to laugh," Ginny said, clutching the open book to her chest so Harry couldn't get a look at the inside.

"That's not fair," Harry said, "it's obviously funny. You were laughing your head off just now." Ginny still looked reluctant, so he held out the carton of food. "I'll trade you," he proposed.

"You play dirty, Potter," she grumbled, dropping the book and grabbing the food.

Harry grinned and snatched up the book, opening its sparkly blue cover to the first page. In a matching sparkly blue ink it read: Property of Ginny Molly Weasley, but the last name was crossed out and Potter had been added later, this time in green ink. Harry turned to Ginny to question it, but she simply motioned for him to continue and shoveled more food into her mouth.

Harry turned to the first entry and began to read an account of a school supply trip for Ron's fist year at Hogwarts, and the signature on the bottom was the same as the inside cover.

He flipped through the pages quickly to see that all the entries had been changed from Ginny Weasley to read Ginny Potter.

At his enquiring glance, Ginny swallowed a mouthful of noodles and grinned sheepishly. "When I was little, I used to keep diaries all the time," she said. She frowned thoughtfully. "I stopped that quickly, after... you know." Harry squeezed her hand and she smiled. "But these are from before I went to Hogwarts. I have a whole collection of them." She gestured to a small pile of books that had accumulated on the floor, each with a different colored cover.

"And the name?" Harry asked.

"Well," Ginny began, blushing slightly, "I may have gone back and made some alterations after I saw you that first time at Kings Cross and Ron started sending letters..." she trailed off when she looked up and saw Harry trying to contain his laughter. "Go ahead, laugh," she said.

He did. "You were laughing at it too, you know," he said.

"I was a little girl with a crush," Ginny defended. Harry nodded in agreement and put the book on the pile of others, reaching over and pulling Ginny into his lap.

"That's okay," he murmured, nuzzling her neck and then leaning over to kiss her cheek. "It'll be something to show the kids one day, about how their mum had it all planned from the start."

"You agreed with me at the time we discussed yours," Harry reminded her, exasperated.

"That's right. We said that we didn't want to force anything on him, because it would be his decision to make, not ours," Ginny countered. 

Harry thought it through and realized he had dug himself into a corner; they had agreed not to do anything yet. "Fine," he conceded. "But you need to admit that this isn't that big a deal. It isn't going to shape the rest of his life."

Ginny fought the urge to stamp her foot. "We don't know that for sure. That's one of the reasons I avoided doing it, because I didn't want him to feel he had to agree just because his mum used to-"

"Like he really understands that?" Harry cut her off. "It was different with Teddy, because he understood what was happening around him. But this is completely different! I think you are just mad because of what it is, not because it happened."

Ginny frowned at him and then plopped down on the bed with a big sigh. "I suppose you're right."

Harry smiled at his victory and went to sit next to her. "I know," he said. Ginny glared at him, but snuggled into his side regardless. 

"I just don't want Ron and his poor taste to be responsible for changing the course of my son's life," she said, leaning her head against Harry’s shoulder. "This is a big decision, one that makes a person who they are. You see how attached he is to that stuff Ron bought already, and it just happened. What happens if he regrets this later in his life?"

Harry pulled back and looked at her skeptically. "Ginny, you do know that James is six months old, right?" he asked. "I don't think he is thinking about this as much as you are."

Ginny heaved a great sigh and Harry kissed the top of her head, hiding his grin in her hair.