Party Your Heart Out by Laura Laurent
Summary: *** The author has been reminded via the e-mail address on file that this story is listed as incomplete and has not been updated in over 2 years ***
SEQUEL to "In The House of the Quick and the Hungry." Harry wants Ginny, Ginny wants the world, and let's face it, the world wants Harry and Ginny to be together. Featuring night clubs, rock stars, and flying red convertibles. Set in Ginny's 7th year.
Rating: PG-13
Categories: Post-HBP, Post-Hogwarts
Characters: None
Genres: None
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: Between the Lines and Beyond the End
Published: 2006.07.03
Updated: 2007.02.15
Index
Chapter 1: Party One
Chapter 2: Party Two
Chapter 3: Chapter 3
Chapter 1: Party One
Author's Notes: This two-or-three-part fic is part of a larger series chronicaling Harry and Ginny's relationship---because you can't sum up a love like theirs into one story. ;-)
Not that it was saying much–but the summer after his momentous triumph over the Dark Lord was the best summer of Harry's life. He basically did nothing–all day, everyday–nothing. Well, nothing but Ginny. For the first time in his life, Harry actually dreaded his trip to King's Cross on September the first, because this time he would be standing on the platform as the scarlet engine began to move, and Ginny would be waving to him from a window.
Until she mentioned it to him in mid-July, Harry had completely forgotten that Ginny still had to complete her seventh year.
“Aw, come on,” he told her, pulling her to him and running his lips along her jaw. “Just skive off like I did.”
Her throat vibrated against his mouth as she laughed, “Ha-rry–I already skived off all of sixth year, McGonagall will put me in detention for the rest of my life if I miss any more.”
“Fine,” he sighed exasperatedly, rolling his eyes, “I suppose I'll let you go, if you really want to.”
He was kidding, of course, but not really. Really, the thought of being apart for another year immediately conjured images in his mind of the abject misery that was last year's “Hor Hunt,” as Ginny had taken to calling it, and these thoughts brewed in the back of his consciousness for the rest of the summer, though they never really talked about it.
That is, not until the last night of August, when he and Ginny were alone in his room, making good use of his bed. His hand was unbuttoning her jeans when she tore her mouth from his, just long enough to get the words out.
“I think we should break up.”
“In a minute,” he breathed, pulling down the zipper.
“Wait–what?” He pulled his hand away as though the zipper had burned him, sitting up so quickly that she toppled off him. Then he just looked at her, and she crawled back onto his lap.
“It's not that–“ She gave him a searing kiss, and as she varied the pressure she whispered against his lips, “I don't–really–really still–want you...” She trailed off again, pushing him back against the pillow and continuing with their original plan to undress each other. And really, he thought as she pulled his shirt over his head, Who am I to inhibit a woman's freedom to do as she pleases?
Harry's hands were snaking their way into her knickers, her jeans long since gone, and she had turned her attention from his mouth to his neck when he finally managed to speak.
“It just–doesn't feel like we're breaking up...”
He wished he hadn't. Ginny stilled immediately, and he felt her take a deep, shuddering breath against his skin. She pushed herself off him, and scooted a few inches away, and the apologetic look in her eyes seemed to spell the end of the world to him.
“Are we?” he asked, his heart stilling at the thought.
“I think we should,” she murmured. He glared at her, demanding an explanation, and she swallowed. “We won't be together anyway. You'll be in London, I'll be at school–you'll be out clubbing every Saturday night with the rest of–”
He shook his head, “No–”
“–the rest of the First Year Aurors,” she finished firmly. “And you'll still be the most eligible bachelor in the wizarding world.”
It was like being stabbed. “Do you not trust me?”
She smiled weakly, crawling closer and running her fingers along the side of his face. “I do–but I don't want to burden you with that.”
He closed his eyes, clamping his hands over her wrists to still her. “What are you saying?” he bit out tersely.
“I'm saying that long-distance relationships can cause a lot of self-perpetuating problems and angst that could be avoided if we just ended it now and left the future open.”
“I can't believe I'm hearing this,” he said accusingly, “and from you, of all people! After all the shit you gave me about how I hurt you when I left and now you're just going to turn around and do the same!”
She shook her head, and said with a note of desperation, “No, Harry–you're not listening to me!”
It took all his strength of will to submit his angry self to patience, but he looked at her. “I'm listening. Now what are you saying?”
She gulped. “Think about it Harry–by December we will have been living our relationship through Hedwig for longer than we were together in the first place. You're going to be in London, with a whole bunch of other young single people who're looking to get laid, in a flat of your own, and you'll be horny.” She was kneeling now, and she put her hands on his shoulders and said squarely, “I'm saying that when you catch yourself staring at another witch's bum, and you will, I don't want you slap yourself inwardly and say 'I have a girlfriend.' Because you won't. I won't make you wait.”
“That's not your decision to make,” he said slowly.
She lowered her eyes. “You're right. If you want to close your eyes to the rest of the world and take cold showers every day then fine, but I won't be doing the same.”
Their eyes met and he felt a sharp, painful squeezing in his insides, and any anger or resentment he might have had was overpowered by the urge to vomit. He pushed her off him and stood, looking for his shirt–looking everywhere but at her.
“If you wanted to move on,” he muttered, finding it and pulling it over his head, “you should have just told me.”
“I don't want to move on,” she said. “And maybe you don't either right now, but that's because I'm sitting in your bed half-naked.” In his head, about fifty indignant replies answered this statement, but he couldn't bring himself to voice a single one. “Neither one of us is secure enough in this to make it through nine months of nothing but letters. You know that.”
Harry felt all pride desert him as the tide of desperation reached a dizzying height. “You can't just break up with me and expect all that to go away,” he said, looking up at last. “Whether or not I have a right to feel jealous or miserable, I will. There's no way to make this any prettier you know–this is ugly–wanting a girl who's busy moving on, you can't make this easy.”
“Oh will you hop off the stake?” fumed Ginny with exasperation. She got up and marched over to where he stood and pulled his head down so that his eyes were looking into hers. “You–” but she stopped again and took a step back. With a snap of her fingers the footstool under the desk walked over and stationed itself in front of her. She stepped up. Now eye to eye with him, she took his face in her hands once again.
“I am going to be at Hogwarts,” she said, rather loudly and emphatically, “sleeping in a room with four other girls at the very top of a staircase which no male can climb, living in the most well-protected castle in Britain with a bunch of pre-pubescent snots and crusty old teachers.”
Though he felt like crying, a traitorous smile crept up on his lips at that. The expression in her eyes was sad, and for the first time in the conversation Harry began to understand.
“You'll be living the life of a First Year Auror, and you'll invariably get dragged into the social scene–we both know it. You'll have a flat of your own, free to do as you please, and women will throw themselves at your feet, and they won't all be crazed fan girls. And while I can't imagine that any of them compares to me, you'll be less likely to fall into their arms without all of the self-loathing and guilt of infidelity dragging you down.”
Harry nodded slowly, as if the weight of the acknowledgment were hanging from his chin. He couldn't expect her to wait at Hogwarts knowing all that, it was enough to drive anyone crazy.
Ginny smiled. “It's just lucky that between the two of us, I'm not the one who's jealous and insecure.”
And so they had agreed at last to live as friends for the time being, and the next morning, a hug was all they shared on the platform beside the Hogwarts Express.
“Bye,” mumbled Harry as she loosened her arms from his neck. She opened her mouth, presumably to say the same thing, but she never managed it.
“Yeah,” she said feebly, snapping her eyes away from his and making her way towards the train. Harry watched her go with a dull feeling of emptiness rising inside him. He made his way through the morning by registering to take the aptitude tests at Auror Headquarters, but he was finished by three o'clock that afternoon, and found himself in the middle of London with nothing to do. A voice in his head that sounded like Hermione immediately began harping on him about finding a flat, or preparing for the tests in some way, and a number of other important 'things to do,' but Harry waved them all aside.
That's not the same, he thought dejectedly, kicking a stone on the pavement as he started morosely up the street. Nothing is–once you know the other meaning of 'doing things'... the regular kind just can't compare.
~*~
The lonely blackness that had encompassed Harry's mood upon Ginny's departure began to lessen gradually over the coming weeks, as if his eyes were slowly adjusting back to life without her. He was keeping busy–working hard and fulfilling old childhood fantasies in his time off. So far he'd turned a tree blue, eaten an entire jar of peanut butter with a spoon, bought a car, and spent a ridiculous amount of money for the flat with the extra high, vaulted ceilings so that he could jump on his bed–he had yet to build himself a tree house with a marshmallow landing pit below it and find out if toilet cleaner was flammable.
Ginny's letters helped to fulfill him as well, and he liked to imagine her saying it all as he read them. He tried to reply, but he didn't have a great deal of spare time. It wouldn't matter if he did, either, because he was rubbish at writing about anything other than Quidditch or things like the weather. Mostly he just asked questions, and she wrote back replies that flitted gracefully from subject to subject.
Deprived of the sight of her face, or the feel of her lips against his own, or even the sound of her voice, Harry found himself getting to know her mind–that and her handwriting. That sort of 'getting to know you' wasn't nearly as much fun, but it grew to be one of his favorite things nonetheless.
There was so much about her that he had never known. He hadn't realized that she had hobbies other than him (at this thought he stopped and took a moment to remember that he was indeed an inconsiderate pig... he found himself doing that a lot as he read her letters).
When I was little, Mum used to make a lot of my clothes, because she refused to make me wear the boys' old things. She used to say, 'What's the point of having a girl if you raise her like a boy?' Anyway, they were pretty dowdy, and by the time I was ten I was embarrassed to be seen in them. We had this big fight about it once, and in the end she wound up agreeing to teach me how to sew for myself. I actually didn't really think I'd be able to do it any better than she did, but once I'd got a wand and could do the basic stitching charms I kind of got into it.
Harry had never noticed that most of Ginny's clothes were handmade by herself–he supposed he'd always been too eager to take them off.
And it wasn't just Ginny he was learning about, but Hermione and Ron and a whole lot of other people he had thought he knew pretty well. He had been rather shocked to learn of the wild dance parties in the girls dormitories at Hogwarts every other Friday night, for instance.
There's not really much room to party in a dorm, but that works out well because not everyone agrees on what music to play anyhow. Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson started the tradition when I was in third year. They were having boy issues so they used to crank up the Weird Sisters' Ode to Dejection album and jump around and scream their frustrations out, and pretty soon everyone from second year up wanted in. Me and Hermione went to one once–it was a little overwhelming.
Pretty soon the girls in my year branched out and started hosting their own parties where they actually danced, and those were much more fun. Hermione used to have all sorts of dance lessons before she came to Hogwarts, so she fit right in, especially when they started choreographing different routines for their favorite songs. I, on the other hand, couldn't keep up to save my life, and Parvati got a bit snooty and started complaining that all the beats were too slow and clumsy, and she and Lavender invited me back to their room and Padma came over and they taught me how to belly dance, which I am actually quite good at, if I do say so myself.
He might have wondered how Padma got into Gryffindor Tower and asked about it in his next letter, but Ginny had unfortunately mentioned belly dancing in the same sentence and had therefore forfeited his attention for the duration of the letter, as he fantasized about four girls in a dormitory, wearing nothing but scarves and sequins, teaching each other how to shake their hips.
With this in mind, however, Harry had mixed feelings when he read in The Daily Prophet about a night club opening in downtown Hogsmeade. Just the thing to bring some night life to the town, no doubt, but a rather rude part of him couldn't help noticing that Ginny's chances of getting some action had just increased dramatically. In any case, Harry reckoned he'd have to check the place out, and as if on cue, an invitation arrived the very next day.
Apparently the the owner of the establishment had been a member of the Slug Club in his day, because Professor Slughorn was hosting a party there the following Saturday night. Hermione had of course received an invitation as well, but Ron hadn't, and so she quickly made plans with him for the same night so that it appeared to anyone who asked that both had declined in favor of one another's company.
Harry, however, managed to get off duty a few hours early, intent on catching at the last hour or so, and arrived around ten o'clock. His first thought upon seeing the place was that it was a much larger event than he had imagined. At least three times the number of guests at Slughorn's Christmas party in sixth year. Harry reckoned it made sense–the place was much better equipped to handle a party than any place at Hogwarts, and was much more accessible for anyone who was no longer a student.
The familiar “Harry m'boy!” met his ears as a large, fat hand clapped him on the back, and for the next half hour Harry was paraded around the room like a show dog as Slughorn introduced him to what seemed like everyone and their mother.
Once that was finished, however, he had a rather enjoyable time of it for the duration of the party. There were a great deal of professional Quidditch players present–Harry spent nearly forty-five minutes talking to the offensive coach of Puddlemere United, who had heard of Harry's talent through Oliver Wood, trying to assure the man that he was perfectly happy with his chosen career as an Auror, and no, he was not interested in Seeking for a living.
He did his best not to inwardly dwell on Ginny, but it was difficult, as he kept seeing flashes of her hair through the undulating crowd on the dance floor. Harry could never completely quell the vague twisting of unease in his stomach at the thought of her, because despite the circumstances, he was sure that between the two of them, Ginny would be the first to bounce back if their official break, ever became an official break-up.
At first, Harry had refused to accept the possibility that he could ever go out with someone else, but to his horror, in the coming weeks he found his thoughts drifting into increasingly dangerous territory where Kingsley Shacklebolt's new assistant was concerned. He really hated himself for it, and he really tried to direct his thoughts elsewhere but he was quickly learning that suppressing the human brain was about as easy as controlling a roomful of drunken chimpanzees in heat.
The party continued long after Slughorn himself retired–another advantage, Harry supposed, to hosting it in a nightclub rather than his office. Things had started to die down, however, when one last throb of a drum and wail of a guitar signaled the end of another song, and he heard the opening bars of a slow number that was vaguely familiar to him. He was sitting alone at this point, and it occurred to him that he should probably go home. He stood up, but instead of making his way over to the door, his legs carried him almost involuntarily towards the sluggish mob on the dance floor.
He waded his way through the warm bodies, and found what he was looking for. He tapped her on the shoulder, not caring that she was talking to someone.
“Do you want to dance?”
Ginny's face broke into a grin. “Harry!” She threw her arms around him in a brief hug. “I thought I saw you over there–but I didn't think you'd be here–Hermione said you had work.”
He shrugged. “I left a bit early.”
The ease with which they melted back into each other was remarkable. Laughing, talking —it was all so much easier with Ginny. Or not talking–that was easy too, Harry mused as they lapsed into silence. After a few moments, however, Harry heard a sniff from Ginny, and he pulled away to look her in the eyes.
“What's the matter?”
In a split second he imaged that Ginny turned those wide, sorry eyes to him and fell into a tearful confession, admitting that she missed him terribly and she couldn't pretend anymore and wouldn't he please take her back because she could hardly stand it.
In reality, Ginny just gulped and gave him the wimpiest smile ever. “Nothing–I'm just in huge trouble.”
“What do you mean you're in trouble?” he asked warily.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh relax–not that kind of trouble.”
“Why? What'd you do?”
Her head flopped onto his shoulder again as they continued dancing, and Harry had to strain his ears to hear her. “I was supposed to be back to the castle at eleven.”
Harry grimaced slightly. “Oops. What happens if you're late?”
She sighed and looked up again. “You have to wake up one of the teachers to let you in. Only sixth and seventh years were allowed out anyway–and we were all supposed to go back when Slughorn did.”
Harry chewed a bit on the inside of his mouth. “Did you just notice this now?”
“No–I noticed it just after they left, and I was going to go back, but then my favorite song came on and one thing led to another and...”
"Ginny that was almost two hours ago!" said Harry, glancing at his watch. Ginny flushed a little.
"Well I have, erm, a lot of favorite songs."
At this, Ginny's expression of dread deepened and she gave an affected little pout and leaned into his shoulder again, "I am so dead."
Harry thought for a moment, and then said, quietly, “I can give you a ride.”
“What?”
He smiled, taking her hand and dragging her towards the door. “C'mere, I want to show you something.”
The cool breath of autumn was a relief after the sticky heat of the club, as Harry led Ginny around the side of the building to where he had parked. Ginny gasped. It was a deep red, gleaming convertible.
“You got a car?”
He grinned. “Yeah–and not only that–“
Ginny squealed excitedly, “It can fly?”
Harry nodded. “Your dad helped me enchant it.”
“I didn't even know you could drive.”
“Ron taught me and Hermione last year. Come on, I'll drive you home.”
“How are you going to–”
He grinned rather smugly as he opened the door for her. “Don't worry about it. Hop in.”
Ginny obeyed with a sly smile.
“Oh–watch your head though, the top's invisible.”
“How clever!” she laughed, reaching out and feeling the invisible roof, “You don't have to worry about rain.”
“That's the idea,” he said, moving around to the driver's side and climbing in.
The engined hummed into life, as Harry slowly backed out of the alley and onto the street. “We'd better stay on the ground for now–otherwise I'll lose the road.”
Ten minutes later they were pulling up to the gates, which, as Ginny had predicted, were padlocked. Harry stepped out, and with a wave of his wand sent a giant streak of silver light off over the grounds. It had, of course, occurred to Ginny that if she managed to reach Hagrid he might let her in without getting her in trouble. But even if Hagrid managed to get the message, and even if they convinced him not to tell the other teachers that she had missed the curfew, the front doors would still be locked, and the chances of making it up to Gryffindor Tower undetected after that weren't great either.
Someone was coming then, a lantern swinging in hand... it was Hagrid. Ginny breathed a small sigh of relief. He unlocked the gates, after exchanging a few words with Harry in a disapproving tone, but as Harry got back in he was grinning, and as they drove through Hagrid winked indulgently at her. Before Ginny had time to wonder how she was going to make it up to her dormitory without getting caught, Harry shifted the gears and the car rose steeply into the air.
“It's invisible from the bottom,” he explained, in answer to the nervous glances she was giving him.
“Impressive,” she said, now relaxing enough to appreciate how cool it was to be in a flying car again. Harry pulled carefully up to Gryffindor Tower.
“Which window is yours?”
Ginny squinted at them. “That one,” she said after a moment, “I think.”
“You think?” said Harry dubiously.
“Well usually I take the stairs, you know!” Their gazes met and they laughed ruefully at each other. “Just let me off here.”
“But what if it's not the right one?”
“Oh well, I'll just apologize, and nip back to my room.” She gave him a cheery smile, which faded slightly and she said, more seriously, “And thanks Harry–I'd be in so much trouble I–I owe you a huge one.”
“Kiss me and we'll call it even, yeah?” suggested Harry, knowing an opportunity when he saw one.
She leaned over and acquiesced with a grin. “Thanks,” she whispered, lingering near his lips just a moment longer, before she swung the passenger door open and climbed carefully onto the wide window ledge in the thick castle wall. Harry couldn't help laughing when he imagined the faces on the room's occupants as some girl in lethal-looking heels and a tube top crawled through the window.
Ginny waved at him before she wriggled through headfirst, and a moment later, he sped away–straight into the night sky, feeling unbelievably happier than he had in a while.
Chapter 2: Party Two
“You know what really hacks me off?”Hermione's voice broke the relative silence of the changing room.
“This music?” offered Ginny from her stall. Celestina Warbeck she could at least tolerate, but when her already bad songs were covered by what sounded like a bunch of pre-pubescent House Elves she expected that someone would have put their foot down.
“Yes, that and the fact that there must be some natural law that says that only expensive clothes are allowed to fit me.”
Ginny's head emerged from behind her curtain. “What? Let me see.”
Hermione stepped out of her stall and looked at herself in the three-way mirror, which wolf-whistled at her.
Ginny grinned. “But they fit you so well.”
“But they so cost twenty Galleons,” echoed Hermione with a pained expression on her face. She and Ginny had met up at Gladrags during the last Hogsmeade weekend before the Christmas holidays. Ginny was shopping for something to wear to Slughorn's Christmas Party, and Hermione was browsing idly, killing a few hours before her date with Ron than night.
“So try the other ones,” Ginny said, shrugging. “But first–what do you think of this shirt?”
She let the curtain drop, revealing an interestingly layered white garment. She peeked anxiously at the mirror behind Hermione's back. “You know–it didn't look so much like a wedding cake on the hanger,” she noted critically.
“Yes, but actually,” Hermione tilted her head a little, “It kind of works on you. Try it with jeans instead.”
Both girls nodded and disappeared once more into their respective stalls for Round Four.
“So,” said Hermione conversationally once they heard the other occupants of the changing room leave, “is there a reason you're not telling me who your date is tonight?”
“How did you–“
“Harry told me.”
“Right, yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes there's a reason I'm not telling you.”
“Why? Will I laugh?”
“Maybe, if you've a really crap sense of humor.”
“Will I call you a slut?”
“Sadly, no.”
“Just tell me, who is it?”
Ginny stepped tentatively out of the stall. “Who is who?” she tried elusively.
“Your date,” said Hermione from behind the curtain, sounding extremely terse.
“I don't have one.”
There was a pause.
“Hermione?”
More silence.
“Are you alright?”
“Fine,” she said, and Ginny couldn't really distinguish anything very revealing in her tone, “I'm just trying to figure out why, in the name of Merlin, you would tell Harry you couldn't go with him to Slughorn's party because you had a date already, when you really don't, and furthermore, why you would still not have a date, almost two weeks later.”
Ginny bit her lip. “I was planning on picking one up this afternoon.”
“What, at Zonko's?”
“Actually I've had better luck at Honeydukes, believe it or not.”
“Funny,” said Hermione archly, whipping the curtain back and giving Ginny a stare that seemed to bore a hole in her head.
“Those are tight,” observed Ginny tacitly.
Hermione snorted. “Understatement of the century, that is. If these things were any tighter my butt would be a diamond.”
Ginny had long ago stopped questioning Hermione when she said absurd things like this.
“They look–”
“Don't change the subject,” she said quickly.
“Well, what do you want me to say?” said Ginny, leaning forward in front of the mirror. Not too much cleavage, considering how loose it looked when she stood up...
“Why did you tell Harry you had a date?”
“I told Harry I had a date,” she explained, straightening, “because I wanted him to think I had a date. Simple but brilliant, really.”
Hermione upped the iciness in her stare, and Ginny got the idea that she'd better elaborate.
“Come on, Hermione! I'm only pushing him away so he'll come back!”
“That's absurd.”
“No it isn't,” she argued calmly, “It's basic physics: if you propel an object one way, it will eventually start to move in the opposite direction.”
Hermione shook her head, looking mystified. “I don't know who taught you the laws of physics, but I hope they didn't take any money from you.”
“Well whatever,” said Ginny dismissively. “It'll work, trust me.”
“And what exactly are you trying to do?” continued Hermione doggedly, determined to inject some reason into her poor, senseless friend.
Ginny's hands halted in their examination of the frills on the front of her shirt. She swallowed, and looked up at Hermione with honest eyes. “I want him to realize that he couldn't love anyone else if he tried.”
Hermione paused, as if to pay respect to the gravity of what Ginny had said, which her excellent mind had deduced to mean that Ginny wanted Harry to feel about her the way she felt about him. Ginny, meanwhile had resumed her critical appraisal of her clothes.
“Don't you think he knows that, and that's why he asked you?” she tried after a minute, but Ginny didn't seem to hear her.
“You know,” she said delicately, “I just don't think the world is ready for this dress.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Ginny arrived at Enchantment Hall–that was the rather lame name that the owners of the night club in Hogsmeade had decided on, though it didn't fit the atmosphere very well at all–the party was in full swing. The band that was rumored to be appearing that night hadn't shown up yet, but the place was crowded and Ginny managed to idle away an hour chatting to various people before she became really bored.
Luckily, the band had by that time begun setting up their equipment on the stage. The rumors, it would seem, were true: unless Ginny's eyes deceived her, that was the lead singer of Tarantallegra standing on the stairs talking to Professor Slughorn. Most unusually, Ginny had not had a chance to speak with the professor since they had arrived together. As if he were thinking the same thing, Slughorn spotted her and beckoned her over with a jovial wave of his hand.
“Miss Weasley!” he said, looked pleased. “Ezra Barnes of Tarantallegra, Ezra–this is Ginevra Weasley, a charming young witch I'm most delighted to be in acquaintance with. When did you arrive, m'dear? I haven't seen you all evening.”
She grinned, “I came with you and the rest of the students, remember?”
He roared with laugher, “But of course you did! Pardon me for saying so, but you look so grown up–it's hard to believe you're still a student yet, and only eighteen!”
“Seventeen, actually,” she said, feeling rather genteel, as she grabbed a glass of champagne off of a tray that was passing by.
“So you're legal then?” asked the lead singer, with a roguish wink.
“Oh ho!” boomed Slughorn merrily, “Now not so fast, Ezra, this young lady is taken!”
“Am I?” said Ginny mildly, arching her eyebrows and taking a sip of champagne.
“Speaking of Mr Potter,” said Slughorn, getting right down to business. Which we weren't thought Ginny dryly. “I am most disappointed–he hasn't put in an appearance yet... of course, the night is still young, but...”
Ginny merely smiled and took another sip of champagne, as Ezra whats-his-name excused himself, “Well Miss–er,”
“Ginny,” she said simply, reaching out and shaking his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“No it wasn't,” he corrected artfully. “The pleasure... was mine.” And with that he lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips. She could hardly refrain from rolling her eyes. “And I'd better see you on the dance floor.”
“Indeed.”
With that he swaggered off, leaving Slughorn to continue in his inquiry after Harry. “As I was saying, Mr Potter–I'm sure I sent him a dozen invitations, and he did say that he would be here if he could manage it.”
Ginny made no reply to this.
“Of course, I was rather hoping that I would have some assistance in persuading him to come.” He waggled a meaningful eyebrow at her.
“Yes, well,” said Ginny, feeling suddenly trapped. “Harry's very busy isn't he?”
“Indeed,” he said soundly.
Ginny excused herself rather clumsily a moment later, and made her way to the dance floor where the opening bars of the band's first song were playing. This was why she had come, she reminded herself. She loved this–the all-encompassing noise, the warmth of the bodies, and the throbbing of the bass–that beating heart of the mob–so deep you could feel it in your lungs.
She was a good dancer, and whatever she may have lacked in technical proficiency she more than made up for in mad, rhythmic energy. She looked good, and she knew it. After what seemed only a few minutes the band took a break, and Ginny made her way to the side exit, desperate by now for a bit of fresh air herself.
Once out on the patio, Ginny quickly became cold again and was headed back inside when a voice spoke out from the murmurs of the other people milling about.
“Ginny, right?”
It was that Ezra bloke. She smiled widely after her natural custom. “Yeah.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Back inside,” she said, feeling as though this should have been obvious.
“Why? There's nothing going on in there–you should come hang out with us.”
“Where are you going?” she asked warily.
“Back inside,” he said, grinning.
“Right,” she said with a laugh. He didn't seem quite so sleazy on second impression, and Ginny supposed that so long as she stayed in the club, she was safe. And she had her wand with her, after all.
“We're up in the break room, come on.”
That “we” included, as Ginny soon found out, the band and a few choice members of their crew. She didn't think she had ever beheld so much coolness in a single room before–which was saying quite a lot, considering who some of her brothers were. It was exhilarating, if slightly overwhelming. The party was small enough that attention immediately rested on her, the stranger, but she coped quite well and didn't say anything too stupid.
She was a fun drunk–she had known that for a while now, and she didn't have to be very intoxicated at all for some of that to take effect. The champagne, it seemed, had been enough. She found that all she had to do was coast in the wake of Fred and George's notoriety and laugh a lot and she was very popular. At one point the woman who played bass complimented her on her dress (perhaps the world had not been ready for it, but apparently Tarantallegra was, and she was glad that she had bought it after all). She wondered, at some point, when the band was planning on going back to the party, it seemed like rather a long break–but it couldn't have been more than half an hour... well, maybe just a half-hour.
A knock came at the door of the break room. It was one of the crew–her name was Stacey; Ginny didn't remember her leaving. “Time to pack up, mates.”
No one looked very surprised at this, and no one seem to notice the startled expression that passed over her for a moment, before she collected herself and resumed her coolness.
“You all leaving then?” she asked, as nonchalantly as she possibly could.
“Yeah.”
She stood and stretched. “I should be going back as well. What time is it?”
The man stopped and looked at his watch. “It's... a few minutes after one.”
Ginny's mouth went dry. A few minutes after one? Holy shit. Shit shit shit!
“Yeah,” she said, but it was so much harder for her to act cool now, “I should really head back to school...”
Several people chorused good-bye, and Ezra looked over at her with a wink. “It's probably past your bedtime, isn't it?”
She laughed, but it was very fake-sounding. No one could tell though, apparently. Someone was going to ask her if she was going to be in trouble... someone would ask, and she'd casually mention that actually, she was indeed in craploads of shit. She wasn't sure what they'd be able to do about it, but... but it didn't seem to matter, because no one asked.
So she just let herself out, and casually made her way downstairs, heart hammering louder, it seemed, than her clunky heels on the black metal steps. Think! she commanded herself, What are you going to do? Her shoes made a think think think... all the way down the stairs. She had to find her coat, for one thing.
Once in the safety of the bitter, open air outside the club, Ginny couldn't help but cry at her own stupidity. It was just ridiculous–to lose track of the time like that again. What had she been thinking? How could she have not even bothered to ask the time? She tried in vain to come up with a story worthy to feed McGonagall, but there was simply no excuse.
Last time Harry had been here to give her a ride... but no, he wasn't here now–maybe he would be, but she'd given him no reason to come. He was probably out on a date right now with some gorgeous Auror. Fresh tears coursed down her cheeks at this.
And yet, she knew that he would want to help her now, if he could. Her pride began to protest at how she would look, Flooing him and begging for a ride. Like she couldn't take care of herself, like she wanted to see him but couldn't admit it–though truth be told neither of these was much worse than the truth, which was that she was just abysmally stupid.
With that in mind she headed back inside, and made her way to the bar.
“Can I use your Floo?” she asked, nearly shouting over the noise. The barman nodded curtly and led her into a dimly lit store room, where a small, dying fire still burned in an efficient-looking fireplace. “Thanks,” she said, and stooping low and taking a handful of powder from a bucket, shouted Harry's address, “1533 Chandler Street!”
The usual spinning sensation commenced for a few seconds, but just when it should have slowed to a halt at the correct grate, she felt a violent and unnatural shuddering, as though some invisible force had taken her by the shoulders and shaken her. Panicking, she wrested her head away from the fire and fell back onto the cold linoleum, and an unpleasant wet feeling on the back of her thigh told her she had sat in one of her own slushy footprints.
“What was that?” she wondered, as her pulse began to relax. She picked herself off the floor and stood, as a head rush of dejection flooded her. Had she thought she was screwed before? Now she was screwed.
She took a deep breath and fought back the feeling of desperation. It was just as well, she told herself–at least this way her pride would remain intact. She thanked the barman on her way out, as she began casting about for any other possibility. The only thing she could think of was to conjure a Patronus and send it to Hagrid, informing him that she was safe but that she needed to get back into the castle. Then she'd walk back, and hope that someone would be waiting for her at the gates. She looked down at her shoes in doubt. They weren't exactly made for walking. She tried vainly to cast a Cushioning Charm on them, but the strappy things didn't have enough substance to cushion in the first place.
Feeling a flood of misery rising inside her, she straightened up and stepped out into the stark and frigid night. It was so cold... She walked around the side of the building to a secluded spot, and raised her wand.
“Expecto Patronum!” she cried.
Nothing happened.
Of course it wouldn't–she hadn't even been trying to focus on something pleasant. She cast about her mind, but it was harder than she could have ever imagined to come up with one single, happy thought. Oh how happy she would be if she could just get back inside the castle...
“Expecto Patronum!” she tried again, but the mist from her breath amounted to more than the feeble whispers from her wand. It seemed that doubtful wishing wasn't enough, even if there were no Dementors around. Bloody hell, there weren't even any Dementors around! Why couldn't she do this?
“EXPECTO PATRONUM!” she bellowed, but it was more a yell of frustration than anything else, and it came as no surprise that once again, nothing happened.
She sank onto the curb with a whimper of defeat, wishing viciously that she could turn back time.
How could she have told Harry that she had a date? What had she been playing at? She had him–she had what she wanted, and she threw it away–for what? So that she could offset the chance that Harry would slip away from her, by slipping away from him first? Well if that wasn't the dumbest thing she'd heard all week...
And the worst part of it was that it might have been okay, if she had been just an ounce less foolish than she was. She had played her games for months, wanting to know if he would put up the same fight she had–would want her the same way she had wanted him, when he had put her on the back burner in his life. And she had gotten her answer, he had asked to see her just a week ago, but she had been too caught up in the game–too caught up in the music, she had lost sight of what she was waiting for–lost track of the time... and she had blown it. Had she thought she wept before? Now she cried.
She didn't know how long she sat there. The cold went relatively unnoticed, and so, many minutes later, did the distant roaring of an automobile. It wasn't until the heatless white light fell on her huddled form that she lifted her tear-stained face and looked around, transfixed in the headlights, as the car rolled to a stop in front of her. She didn't recognize a thing–not the gleaming red body of the car, or the Auror robes of the man in the driver's seat, until a voice said clearly, “Need a ride?”
Ginny rose, trembling, to her feet as the lights went off and the engine fell silent. With a slam of the car door, Harry got out.
“How did you know I was here?” asked Ginny, her voice rasping a bit.
“Did you try to Floo me?” he asked.
She nodded hesitantly, “It didn't work.”
“Standard Ministry protection for their Aurors–I have a list of people who're allowed to contact me over the fireplaces, so you can't just Floo me from any grate.”
“I figured it might be something like that,” said Ginny meekly, still unable to believe that he was really standing here in front of her.
“Yeah well, I have a device on the mantelpiece that records any unsuccessful attempts to Floo me and the serial number on the grate they came from, so when I got home and saw the memo I traced this number to Hogsmeade, and... I figured maybe it was you, and I figured, maybe you needed a ride.”
He said this last sentence rather lamely, as though trying to downplay the effort he had gone through. “So–” he glanced down at the area around Ginny's feet, which was littered with pairs of shoes she had been conjuring for the past half hour. “Is there a story here, or...?”
She smiled feebly for the first time since discovering that she'd missed her curfew, and launched into explanation. When she got to the part where she tried to conjure a Patronus Harry interrupted her.
“Come on, get in the car–it's warmer.”
They climbed in, and Harry prompted her to continue her story.
“Well that's pretty much it–after that I just sat down and cried for a while.”
“And the shoes?”
“Well I wasn't exactly looking forward to having my head chewed off by McGonagall, so I told myself I'd start making my way back to the castle as soon as I made myself a decent pair of shoes to walk in, but it's harder than you think to conjure things so that they actually fit.”
“I know,” said Harry, as he started the car and rolled out of the alley. “I once tried to make myself a new pair of glasses.” And then silence fell as he drove off down the road to the castle.
“Last time I took the car I left it parked somewhere just outside of Glasgow,” he said after a minute or so, jerking Ginny out of her thoughts. “See, I get the idea to drive somewhere all the time but I'm usually too impatient to drive all the way back, so I'll leave it somewhere and then Apparate to it when I want to use it again.”
“Huh?” she said, faintly.
“Well that's how I got from London to Hogsmeade in an hour,” he said, but at the look on her face he knew that she didn't get how long it normally took to get from London to Scotland in a car, and so the awesomeness of the feat was lost on her, and he waved it off. “Never mind.”
They lapsed into silence for the rest of the trip, until at last they were pulling up to her window in Gryffindor Tower and Ginny finally managed to say it.
“Harry.”
She sat, fixed in his gaze, all watery-eyed and miserable-looking, and Harry committed the sight to his memory, knowing somehow that she'd probably never make this mistake again.
“I'm so sorry–I've been so horribly stupid.” She gaped and grappled for more words, but the silence stretched on. Harry could hardly remember what had happened between them. Was he angry with her? He didn't really feel it. At the thought of forgiveness... he drew a blank, and all he wanted was for her to stop looking so sad.
“It's alright,” he said artlessly. “I mean, it's more than alright–it's great. I love you.”
She looked up, as an incredulous smile slowly broke over her face, “Really?”
He shrugged. “Well yeah.”
She gasped, almost laughing with gladness. “I love you too.”
His smile grew into a solid beam. “Really?”
She nodded, swallowing with difficulty. She blinked. “You must think I'm mad–telling you I love you now when I've been...”
Ginny trailed off, avoiding his eyes and hoping tentatively that it wouldn't be an issue. “Keep driving,” she said after an awkward pause, “this could be a while.”
Harry obeyed her directly, and despite everything there was to talk over, neither of them had the faintest idea where to begin.
“It's all right,” Harry answered at last, several moments later. “It was good for me.”
There was an expression of pained neutrality on his face.
“You don't sound good,” she observed.
“I took you for granted,” he said slowly, gazing ahead of him as though watching the road as they flew on into the night. Ginny shook her head and started to deny it, but he cut her off. “I did–I mean, not in the sense that I didn't appreciate you or realize how happy you made me, but until you broke up with me–it honestly never occurred to me that you might not feel the same, or that you might want something more.”
Ginny smirked a little, eyes widening, “It never occurred to you?”
“Never,” he said, as his eyes met hers. He looked mostly dismayed with himself, but there was something underneath it that was still smarting from the realization. “From the start–all through my sixth year–I never wondered if you felt the same, I just assumed. The fact that Dean was your boyfriend... that didn't even register with me. He was just the random annoying bloke that stole all your time and kissed you, as far as I was concerned. The only thing that held me back was Ron–I thought he'd kill me if I asked you out.”
“That was the only thing that held you back?” said Ginny, unable to resist a laugh.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling faintly, “Because... I just knew.”
“How did you know?” she asked skeptically, “I hardly knew.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “No, I mean–I just knew that... that I was the one who wanted–or loved you the most, or could make you the happiest... and if you had any decency at all you'd have no choice but to...”
He gestured wordlessly, and Ginny was unable to contain a small smile as she prompted, “Just fall madly in love with you?”
“–Exactly,” he said solemnly, before he broke into laughter with her.
“Well,” she said after a few moments, her smile slowly fading into a look that was entirely serious, “You were right, for the most part.”
Harry tore his gaze from the cloudscape, holding his breath as they stared into each other's eyes.
“I love you,” she said softly.
There was a long pause then, and for a moment both of them were sure that there was a 'but...' coming. It didn't though. Ginny couldn't think how to say it, and it didn't seem so important anyway. By now Harry had circled back around and they were approaching the castle once again.
When they came to a stop Ginny unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to face him. “Thank you, Harry.”
“Don't say thank you,” he murmured, as she leaned in and kissed him. He kissed her back, and pulled away just long enough to utter a whispered command. “Take it for granted.”
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A/N: There is an epilogue coming, I'm fairly sure. Review and tell me what you think!
Chapter 3: Chapter 3
Author's Notes: Um, I don't know about this one, tell me what you think. Sort of strays from the overall flow, but I liked it and didn't want to post it as a one-shot. Sorry about the wait by the way. I've started writing my own non-derivative novel, and so that's taking up a lot of time, and yeah...
Dean Thomas was having a pretty decent day–or as decent a day as one can have on a Friday the thirteenth. A Friday the thirteenth of February no less–the ugliest month of the year, on the day before Valentine's day, and he didn't have a girlfriend. He'd burnt his tongue trying to finish his coffee before heading off to work, and today had been a slow day at Ezekiel's Ink, but all told, he couldn't really complain.
Until about half past noon, that is, when the flaky girl who worked at the reception desk pulled back the partition to his “office” and informed him that his twelve-thirty appointment was all set.
“I don't have a twelve-thirty appointment,” he told her, not looking up from the zipper he was sketching on a piece of tracing paper.
“Yes–you remember, with the man, I told you–he came in yesterday?”
He looked up. “Veronica I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Oh. Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh. Maybe I forgot to tell you–a man came in yesterday and made–”
“An appointment for twelve-thirty?”
“Yes,” she said, beaming, “So you do remember.”
He rolled his eyes. “Can you ask him if he can possibly–”
“Thomas?”
Dean's mood index rapidly dropped several notches as the voice of his boss rang out from the back room. Bloody bint was always eavesdropping!
“Thomas, I hope you're not asking a customer to reschedule an appointment without any notice.”
Her voice was sweet and calm and obnoxious, it reminded him of Umbridge.
“No, I'm not,” he said, not bothering to better disguise the fact that he certainly had been about to do just that. He glared at Veronica, who giggled rather knowingly at the look on his face. He got up and followed her out to the waiting area, where he was somewhat pleasantly surprised to find a familiar face.
“Harry?”
“Dean?”
“Yes, see–here it is,” said Veronica, picking up something from the front desk and bustling over, “I wrote it down: Harry Potter, 12:30pm”
Dean sighed. “Veronica, what made you think I was going to walk in this morning and go through all the memos on your desk?” He glanced at the note, then he did a double take at the line beneath it. “He wants a what?”
“A dragon,” said Harry, looking only slightly uncomfortable, “on my chest.”
A muscle twitched in Dean's jaw, and a very detached part of him wanted to laugh at the situation he was now in. He hadn't even really spoken to Harry since the stiff truce they'd made about a week and a half after he and Ginny had their little post-game snog-fest in the middle of the common room almost two years ago, and now here he was–the arsehole–asking him to tattoo a bloody dragon on his chest. A less detached part of him recoiled instantly.
“Well, I'm sorry, but I haven't done any sketches–I didn't know you'd be coming. The memo system in this place isn't exactly failsafe.” He glanced at Veronica, who turned and went to sit down at her desk, looking abashed but unruffled.
“Oh well–I was actually hoping you could just draw that Horntail again–you know, the one you did on the back of my transfiguration textbook in fourth year?”
“You know I don't really remem–”
The back room door opened and his boss passed by, examining a manila file, “Are you prepared for your appointment Thomas?” she asked lightly, crossing towards the file cabinet behind Veronica's desk without looking at him.
The slight grimace on his face slackened into a deadened, blank look, save for an eye which was twitching ever so slightly as he said loudly, “Yes I am.” He gave Harry a rather resentful look and muttered curtly, “Follow me.”
“So you want a Horntail?” he said, showing Harry into his “office” and opening his tool drawer with a flick of his wand, “Just a Horntail–sure you don't want it to be shielding a naked woman or wrestling an Amazon or something?”
“Nope, just a Horntail,” said Harry evenly, taking a seat on the table.
They lapsed into silence as Dean began sketching furiously.
“So you're obviously still going out with Ginny then?” he said, after several minutes, as he began doing the scaly details.
“Oh,” said Harry, somewhat surprised. “Yeah, sort of.”
Dean glanced up with a puzzled smirk, “What do you mean 'sort of'?”
Harry shrugged. “I dunno, she's in school right now.”
And they lapsed back into silence, Harry having no idea that he hadn't answered the question and Dean not caring enough to play tell-me-more. When the sketch was finished he handed it to Harry to have a look. “How's that?”
“Brilliant,” said Harry, eyes raking over it.
“All right then, take off your shirt.”
A small part of Dean had to admit–it was quite satisfying, digging a trench in Harry Potter's skin with a needle. He hadn't really had a serious relationship since Ginny Weasley, and though he was definitely over her, some little irks never go away, and it was nice to get a little payback. Harry was very brave while Dean was drawing the outline, and when he was finished Dean set down the needle. “Do you want it to move?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, how?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you want it to do? Do you want it to reflect your emotions? Fly when you're drunk? Breathe fire when you're aroused?”
Harry grinned. “You can make it breathe fire when I'm aroused? Wicked.”
Dean nodded, “You want to do that?” He withdrew his wand from his robes and held it like a pen as he began tracing ever so lightly over the lines. “This a Valentines Day present?” he asked.
He supposed Harry would have shrugged, but he had to keep his upper body still at the moment, and he merely said, “I dunno, not really.”
“Alright,” he said after several moments. “I'm going to heal it up now enough so that we can finish the shading today and you don't have to come back again,”–god knows he didn't want to do that–“but it'll be really sore for a few days.”
Harry nodded, but Dean noticed that his expression was considerably more strained as he put the needle to his flesh once more. “How is Ginny?” he asked, wondering if this kind of discomfort might distract him from the pain on his chest or merely make it worse.
“She's good, I think–I mean I haven't seen her since Christmas.”
At this point Dean actually grew curious. Here Harry was, getting a Hungarian Horntail tattooed across his chest, obviously for Ginny, and yet he didn't seem all that happy. Although, he reckoned, to be fair, he was being cut up thoroughly by a needle at the moment.
But by the time he was putting the finishing touches on it, Dean's conscience was definitely beginning to ache, so badly it was driving him quite mad. He knew it was none of his business, really, but he kept remembering the look on Ginny's face after they broke up and she had started dating Harry, when he asked her the big why.
She'd looked strangely calm, as she'd told him quietly, “I belong to him. I'm sorry, it's just the way it is.”
Even so, it wasn't until Harry was dressed again and digging in his pockets for a tip that Dean finally managed to say something.
“Listen, Harry–I'm sorry. I treated you like a jerk, for a really stupid, childish reason, and I'm sorry.”
Harry looked taken aback, but he recovered graciously enough. “Oh. No–it's no big deal, just erm–thanks for doing this for me, anyway.”
“Of course. And Harry, I just want you to know that I'm happy for you... I'm happy for you, and I'm really happy for Ginny, because I know that she loves you a lot.”
Now Harry really didn't know what to say. But Dean wasn't really paying attention to him, so lost was he in his own profound memories.
“Because you know, I asked her once–why she ever went out with me in the first place, and you know what she said?”
“No,” said Harry, not sounding very curious.
“She said–she asked me, 'Do you know what it's like to belong to someone, Dean?' 'Someone who might not know you exist,' she said, and someone who–in any case, doesn't seem to want you at all? She said, 'It's a huge feeling, and you'd do anything to get away from it.' And I remember thinking, in that moment, that she didn't deserve to feel that way. Ever. ...So Harry, I just have to say: marry her, keep her forever, and don't ever let her go looking for someone else, she'll only break a bunch of hearts.”
Harry was staring at him now, barely masking an expression of discomfort bordering on alarm. “Thanks Dean,” he said awkwardly, and they shook hands.
~*~
By around noon the next day some of the redness and the swelling on his chest had gone away, but the whole area was still rather tender, as Harry knocked on the door to Tonks's flat, cursing the cold.
She swung it open, and greeted him with a bright, “Wotcher Harry! Come in, I was just making a cup of tea.”
“Did you get your tattoo?” she asked him, as she led him into the kitchen.
“Yes.”
“How was it?”
“Hellish,” said Harry emphatically, slouching into a chair at the kitchen table, as Tonks took the kettle off the stove. “Hurt like an Unforgivable, and as awkward as a two-legged turtle to boot.”
“How was it awkward?”
“The tattoo artist was Ginny's ex-boyfriend,” he said, looking harassed by the very memory. He sighed, taking the cup she held out for him. “I suppose that's what you get for making an appointment to get something engraved into your skin on Friday the 13th.”
“Mmm,” said Tonks, pouring herself a cup, “you sure know how to pick 'em.”
“She said 'Thomas', she didn't say Mr. Thomas–not Mr. Dean Thomas–how was I supposed to know?” He sipped his tea looking rueful. “But whatever. It looks pretty wicked.”
“Alright then, let me see,” said Tonks, pulling up a chair, as though Harry had just asked her to proofread an essay.
Harry unbuttoned his shirt rather gingerly. Tonks whistled rather crudely.
“Pretty manly,” she said, grinning appreciatively. “She'll swoon, she will. When are you meeting her?”
“Four o'clock, at the Three Broomsticks.”
“You know that place is an inn, as well as a pub,” she said, eyes twinkling.
A slow grin formed on his face. “Oh I'm very well aware of that.”
“You think maybe...”
The wicked expression melted somewhat, “Most likely.”
“Why do you look less than happy about that?” she asked, spooning more sugar into her tea.
He ran a hand through his hair. “I don't know... it's complicated.”
“Yeah,” she said wisely, “and you're not used to complicated relationships.”
Harry gave an appreciative if perfunctory laugh.
“No, I'm serious,” she said, looking matter-of-fact. “You're life's been so volatile, especially in the past few years, you haven't been able to take anything for granted or be conflicted–you either love someone or you don't, and you've just had to live your life that way, because you've never been sure how long you're going to be around.”
She took a sip, as he stared intently at his cup. “Yeah.” He frowned. “I'd never really noticed that before.”
Tonks shrugged, as if to say 'no problem'. “So... what's up with you two then? You're definitely together?”
Harry frowned. “I think so. I mean–” he looked up at her, “she said she loved me–that means we're together, right?”
“Yeah,” she laughed, nodding encouragingly, “I'd say that's definitely a sign.”
There was a long pause then, as Harry continued to look pensive, and Tonks attended to her tea.
“Everyone keeps telling me I've got her,” he said at last. “That she's mine. Dean said it, her brothers say it, hell–she even said it, but... I just don't think she is.”
“You don't think she loves you?”
“No–I know she loves me, I know that she loves me–deeply–from the very bottom of her heart of hearts, and all that, and I think we're soulmates or something, but... it's like–that's it, that's all it is.”
“Blimey–that blows,” she said, unable to contain a small smile. “You etch a dragon onto your chest and all you get in return is true love.”
“I know,” he said, missing the joke, “I'm an eighteen-year-old bloke–I don't care about true love. I mean–what is that? Oooh, it's a feeling. Big deal.”
She snorted–she couldn't help it, and she laughed harder at the look on his face.
“I mean it,” he said loudly as she leaned back in her chair. “Ginny's not just somebody to love.”
Tonks froze, hands over her mouth, looking intently at him for a moment, before she lowered them, and said in amazement, “You're–you're actually right, Harry.” She looked around her, “Scary, who would have thought, eh?”
“I know,” he said, smiling a little. “But seriously–I know I was the one who broke it off originally but she should feel like she left me behind, because what she did is just so much cooler.”
“Cooler than defeating the Dark Lord.”
“Yeah–it is,” he said fervently, “Joining the Order–going on missions–that's actual Auror work, that is. What did I do? I hung around the house researching things and babysitting a bloody reptile.”
“By the way, you still haven't explained to me exactly what you three did, you know.”
He waved a hand dismissively, “That's beside the point.” He paused then, contemplating what exactly the point was. “I just–I mean, I'm glad she loves me,” and here at last he saw the humor, and laughed. “I am, honestly, and I love her too, I reckon I have for a long time now, but I want to be part of her life–I want to hear about her day and meet all her friends. I want to be her friend–I want to be her...”
He trailed off, as the sound of the lock turning reached their ears, and Remus came through the door clutching a bag of groceries, “I'm home!”
“Yeah, see–I want to do that,” said Harry, setting his mug down with a clunk.
“Do what?” asked Remus.
“Marry Ginny and make lots of babies,” said Tonks, grinning, as she spun around in her chair and Remus bent down to kiss her. Tonks wrapped her arms around him and held him in place as the kiss lengthened, and turned into more of a snog.
“Er–right,” said Harry, somewhat awkwardly. “On that note, I think I'll be heading off–oh but actually, I almost forgot what I came for. Tonks, I need to borrow your ward key for the Hogwarts grounds.”
Tonks broke away and looked at him shrewdly, “What for?”
“So Ginny can get back inside after ten o'clock, I woke Hagrid up before, but I swore last time that it wouldn't happen again.”
Tonks pretended to consider carefully. “Alright,” she said, “Let me go grab it for you, it's in my bag.”
~*~
Harry had already checked in to the room at the Three Broomsticks, and he and Ginny had barely made it through the doorway before they were snogging like there was no tomorrow, when Ginny slid her hands down from the back of his neck and over his chest, and Harry made a visceral hissing noise and winced.
“What's wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, grinning, “I've got something to show you, though.”
He unbuttoned his shirt for the second time that day, and Ginny gasped a gasp which quickly turned into a look of shock as she realized exactly what it was. “Oh my god...”
“Wicked, isn't it?” said Harry, grinning widely, and leading her over to sit next to him on the bed, “See how it's breathing fire? That means I'm aroused.”
She snickered as she leaned in and kissed him. “Honestly Harry,” she said, still laughing against his lips. “You might as well have wrote my name across your chest.”
“Hey,” he said, pulling away ever so slightly and adopting an indignant air. “This happens to represent Hogwarts, all right? See the words on the bottom–Draco Dormiens Numquam Titillandus–it means 'never tickle a sleeping dragon'. ”
“Oh I see, so it's school spirit,” said Ginny, smirking, “You got your girlfriend's patronus animal tattooed across your chest as a statement of loyalty to Hogwarts–that makes sense.”
Harry's eyes widened. “Is your patronus a dragon?”
Ginny laughed. “Nice try, Harry. It's alright–it's sweet. Crude, but sweet.”
“I'm serious Ginny–I didn't–your patronus really is a Hungarian Horntail?”
The smirk faded, “Yeah–I thought you knew that.”
“I honestly didn't.”
“Oh.” She was now staring at the dragon, “Well yeah–it is, it's a dragon.”
“That's so cool.” He grinned, pulling her in for a kiss.
“Don't you remember," she said, as they came up for air several moments later, “in the DA, when there was that massive patronus, and Fred told me to vanish it because it was blinding him?”
“I–didn't realize that was you,” said Harry, “I didn't realize what it was even–it was so bright.”
Ginny laughed, “Yes, well, if you wear sunglasses you can see clearly that it is indeed a pretty good-sized dragon.”
She stopped, and stared at the tattoo again, looking rather strange.
“Ginny? What's wrong?”
“Nothing.” She met his eyes and smiled, but her gaze dropped and the smile fell away from her face so quickly that Harry was sure it couldn't have been on properly in the first place. She kissed him again, but he was not to be distracted.
“Ginny–what's the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said, “it's stupid.”
“Tell me.”
“No–I'm embarrassed.”
“Well too bad, you have to tell me now–come on, I hate playing this game.”
Ginny's face actually reddened as she avoided his eyes, which made Harry feel a bit like a prat, and she paused, open-mouthed, for a moment. “I just–”
The look in his eyes softened, and he picked up her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “Please, Ginny, just tell me.”
“I just thought you knew that–that's why I laughed when I saw it, because I thought you did that intentionally. But,” she swallowed, and then continued dismissively, “I'm glad you didn't–it's stupid to get something like that tattooed–cause it's permanent and... and it's just a ridiculous thing to do, and I'm just embarassed for thinking that... but nevermind, it's fine.”
“You think that's stupid and ridiculous?” he said, grinning at her, “Ginny, you know why I actually got this?”
She looked up. “Why?”
“Do you remember that time, when we were going out, and you said that Romilda Vane had asked if I had a Hippogriff tattooed across my chest?”
Ginny's eyes narrowed pensively. “Yeah... I vaguely remember her asking me that.”
“...And do you remember what you told her? That it was actually a--”
Ginny clapped her hands to her mouth, eyes widening, as the memory fell back into place. “You didn't!”
His grin threatened to cut his face clean in half. “I did.”
She let out a shout of laughter. “You've got to be kidding me! Oh Harry you are an idiot!”
“I know,” he said happily, and she kissed him.
But when they pulled away again, it was Harry's face that was no longer smiling.
“What's the matter?” she said, “And don't you dare say nothing, because we both hate that game.”
“I just realized–that's why Dean was being so weird.”
Ginny looked alarmed. “What the hell does Dean have to do with anything?”
“He was the tattoo artist–and yes, it was extremely awkward,” he said, in answer to the face she made. “But I just realized... He knew it was your patronus, and I didn't.”
“Oh.” Ginny went silent. “It's alright,” she said after a few moments. “Maybe you did know, deep down inside, and that's why you got it.”
“Damn it, I'm sick of this deep-down-inside shit!” said Harry suddenly, which made Ginny snort with laughter. “I'm serious–I'm tired of hearing about how great you are from random Order members, and having your brothers tell me how you feel about things. I don't care if you're my soul mate or whatever the hell, I just want to love you the way a normal boyfriend loves his girlfriend: in person, everyday!”
The look in Ginny's eyes hardened. “You don't think I'm sick of people swapping rumours about you and what you've done in front of me, and then realizing that I actually have no idea if they're true or not?”
Harry, who had been winding up to retort, stopped short. “Oh,” he said, rather lamely. Their eyes met. “Call it even, then?”
She didn't say anything, just looked at him, but a great change seemed to roll over her slowly, and her eyes welled up with tears. “Ginny?”
She shook her head, and kissed him fiercely. “Yes,” she whispered, and she meant it.
“Come on Ginny, why're you crying?”
She laughed, and hugged him just as fiercely, and he cringed in pain as she pressed up against the dragon, but he just bit his lip and hugged her back. “This–” she said, her voice strong and delicate all at once, “this is the happiest I've ever been in my life.”
“Really–why?”
She pulled away and looked at him. “Because you love me and I love you... and we're even now.”