The Proper Care and Handling of Harry by DukeBrymin
Summary: Everyone knew not to disturb Harry when he was upset. Well, almost everyone.
Rating: PG-13
Categories: Post-OotP
Characters: None
Genres: None
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Published: 2011.06.12
Updated: 2012.10.28
Index
Chapter 1: In Which Someone Dares to Interrupt a Brooding Harry
Chapter 2: In Which Harry Learns a Few Lessons, and Goes to Breakfast
Chapter 1: In Which Someone Dares to Interrupt a Brooding Harry
Author's Notes: Rabid plot bunny out of nowhere that wouldn’t shut up until I started writing it. Hope it’s at least somewhat enjoyable.
Nature gives her creations various methods of indicating “Do not touch!”. Whether with armor (as she has blessed the armadillo and the turtle), or weapons (blowfish and porcupines come to mind), or flashing warning signs (as the blue-ringed octopus), they are warnings that should be heeded for one’s continued good health.
Harry was seated at one end of the sofa, unaware that mother nature had gifted him with the same type of protection. His arms were folded, and tense. He was leaning against the arm of the sofa. Although it wasn’t really leaning so much as embracing, or grabbing, or trying-to-meld-with said sofa arm.
Most of the other teen-agers in the room didn’t seem to overtly notice. There were no whispered warnings, or obvious glances. There were even a few hardy souls who sat on the same sofa for various spans of minutes. But an abstract observer charting the eddies and swirls of young flesh would have noticed that the meanderings of the crowd very definitely gave a wide margin to Harry’s end of the sofa--it was a veritable no-man’s-land of carpet.
And if the observer were to time the spans of minutes, and perhaps run a statistical analysis to compare it with the length of time the other sofas, chairs (and the poor credenza) were sat on, it would be even more obvious that Harry was flashing all the warning signs he could. “Danger! Cuidado! Perill! Opasnost! Gefahr!”
Hermione, of course, was observant. She understood Harry very well, had been able to read his body language for a sizable portion of the years of their friendship, and knew that she never normally had anything to fear from her best friend. But even she stayed on the far side of the room, pretending to listen in on Ron’s discussion with . . . some guy she hadn’t caught the name of, about either the Cannons’ chances of ending the season with at least one win, or some chess game played back in Aristotle’s days. Fortunately, Ron and . . . the other bloke, whom she mentally referred to as Bad Shirt Boy (honestly, cranberry was just not a great match to that sickly yellow skin tone), seemed to be entirely oblivious to her distraction.
No, Hermione was paying almost 80 percent of her attention to Harry, and that was enough to be alarming. Normally, she only needed 25 percent to keep track of her best friend. The years had given her a rather good working model of Harry’s behavior. She could predict, with reasonable certainty, his reactions to given situations, and adjusted her Harry-watching percentage accordingly. When he was leading the DA, it hovered around 63 percent. Quidditch matches were slightly lower as a greater portion was dedicated to watching Ron.
Very rarely did Harry demand more than 75 percent of her attention, and those times stood out in her memory as Red Letter Days, where she had a better-than-average chance of dying. But tonight was different. There were no Dark Lords attacking the school. Snape wasn’t around, chivvying Harry to distraction. And, as far as Hermione knew, Harry wasn’t experiencing girl troubles--since his thing with Cho Chang he hadn’t shown much interest in any girl (or boy, for that matter).
So what had Harry so caught up in himself? She thought back carefully throughout the day, blessing her rather prodigious mental faculties for the ability to catalog and analyze her interactions with Harry, but ending up somewhat disheartened to realize that the whatever-it-was that was bothering the boy had to have happened during their afternoon break. She had taken the opportunity to visit the library--Professor Flitwick had mentioned a class of Charms that were most suitable for organizing and protecting repositories of knowledge, and Hermione had wanted to look them up. She wasn’t exactly sure what had happened to Harry, but his demeanor had changed from bad to horrible since that break.
Ron’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to look at the red-head. Apparently his discussion of the abysmal Cannons had ended, and Bad Shirt Boy had left to (hopefully) change his shirt, or go somewhere she didn’t have to see it.
“I’m sorry, Ron, what were you saying?” she asked.
“Nothing, Hermione, I was just talking to Daniel--”
Ah, yes, that’s his name, she thought.
“--but he had to leave, something about changing his shirt.”
Hermione let her face remain composed, but inside was dancing with repressed glee.
“So, do you wanna play chess?” Ron asked, a hopeful expression on his face. Their last game had ended in a stalemate, and he’d been after her for quite some time for a rematch, perhaps to prove that he was better at something than she was. Although he was already better at Quidditch, and broom-flying in general, he seemed to be looking for something else.
Hermione huffed. “No, Ron, I don’t want to play chess.”
Ron’s face fell. “Oh, okay then. I’ll just go find someone else. Maybe Harry’ll want to play me.”
Ron rose to his feet as his last statement percolated down through the non-Harry 20 percent of her awareness. Unfortunately, it arrived too slowly, and her belated “Wait, Ron!” wasn’t heard.
“Hey, Harry!” came Ron’s voice, across the room, and Hermione bowed her head. She knew that this couldn’t end well. Ron’s normal disregard for emotions, teamed with Harry’s obvious upset, meant that there could be quite an explosion. She just hoped they’d be able to pick up the pieces.
Harry hadn’t really heard Ron. All his attention was focused on not letting his magic loose. He could remember times like this, when his magic was thrumming right below his skin, when just the slightest nudge could push him into a towering rage. His punishments at the Dursleys had always been the most severe when he let out the magic, although at the time he didn’t know what that feelings was, nor what caused all the glass in the kitchen to break, or the cutlery to rise up and dance in the air. Thankfully, though, at Hogwarts he’d been able to funnel his magic into other pursuits, although he had learned that even that had to be strictly monitored. They never had been able to figure out how his quill had pierced the ceiling that far.
Ron stood, staring at his best friend, waiting for a response. It didn’t come. He tried again. “Hey, Harry! Want to play some chess?”
Harry looked up at Ron, then, and Ron just about wilted. How could he have missed the warning signs? Grinning manically, Ron started backing away. “Sorry, Harry. I’ll just leave you to sit for a bit, okay?” Ron wouldn’t have called it a mad dash up the stairs, but Seamus’ bad luck in getting in Ron’s way argued otherwise.
Harry absently noted Ron’s departure, but it still didn’t pierce the invisible cocoon of “Don’t Touch!” that separated him from the rest of the students.
Hermione sat, indecisive. Without knowing what had happened, she wasn’t sure of how to fix it. The rest of the students started throwing glances her way. They had finally started to overtly react to Harry’s preoccupation, and the normal Brownian motion of the room became more of a rout, as the students found other, more distant, places to be. It usually fell on Hermione’s shoulders to calm Harry down at these times. But, for once, she didn’t know how to proceed.
Her stewing was interrupted, however, by the portrait hole opening, letting in a chattering group of students. Hermione sent a grimace their way--didn’t they know that Harry was on the verge of erupting? She felt guilty about her thought--of course they didn’t know--but she couldn’t help it. Ginny, at least, should have been able to pick up on the mood of the room more quickly. But to Hermione’s disbelief, the petite red-head continued gabbing away as if nothing were wrong.
As Hermione stared in unbelief, Ginny casually made her way over to Harry’s fortress of solitude on the sofa. Surely she wasn’t going to do anything to him, right? But as Hermione watched, heart in her throat, the red-headed girl sat down right next to Harry--almost on top of him, really.
Harry jumped. He truly had been so wrapped up in his internal conflict that he’d only barely recognized that there were other students in the room. And then to have one of them plop so carelessly next to him, brushing up against him! He turned, ready to unleash his anger on whichever poor soul had decided to endanger his own life. But the sight of all that bright red hair completely disrupted his thought processes.
Ginny, seemingly unaware of her actions, leaned up against Harry and sighed softly.
The other students with whom she had been conversing scattered to their various rooms, tables, chairs and conversational groupings, the majority of which afforded them a decent view of what they were sure was going to be a highly interesting fight.
Harry looked as if he had woken up one morning to find his room painted fluorescent pink. Hermione would have laughed, if she hadn’t been so worried about Ginny’s health. But then Hermione took another look at Ginny. The younger girl’s lips were slightly turned up at the corners, but her eyes--her eyes were the giveaway. Hermione didn’t see any hesitation or doubt in them. Rather they seemed as hard as diamonds, their sparkles betraying a boundless determination. Hermione shifted in her seat, sure that she should start casting shields around the pair, because that was the only way she figured she’d be able to help.
But Ginny noticed Hermione’s movement. Her eyes pinned the older girl to her seat, and Hermione sat back, cowed into inaction. Hermione breathed out quietly, hoping that when it was all over there would still be some furniture left, and that there wouldn’t be too many injuries.
Harry’s eyes narrowed. How dare Ginny come in and lean up against him as if there were nothing wrong! Didn’t she know anything? He took a deep breath, feeling his anger and frustration boil up. He opened his mouth for the initial onslaught--
“Harry, would you please put your arm around me?” Ginny’s voice was quiet, slightly more than a whisper, but it dumped a whole ocean on Harry’s anger.
“What?” he asked, and it wasn’t an incredulous shout, but a confused, soft query.
“Harry, I asked if you would put your arm around me. You do know what that means, right? I mean, you have seen some of the older couples walking around together, haven’t you? It’s something that boyfriends do with their girlfriends.”
Harry’s face betrayed his complete astonishment with the request. “But. . . but. . . “
“What part didn’t you understand?” Ginny demanded, finally turning to look at Harry. “This--” and she picked up his arm and shook it in front of him, “--is your arm.” She set the arm down, and stood up in front of him. “And this,” she said, using both arms to draw Harry’s attention to her head, then indicating all the rest of her, “is my body.” Harry’s eyes had gotten stuck, briefly, when she raised her arms, but he found other things to notice as she turned around, demonstrating that yes, indeed, there was a back side to her.
“Now,” she continued, in a tone that indicated he had better pay attention. “I’m going to sit down next to you. . .” She did so. “And you are going to put your arm around me.”
He didn’t.
Ginny glared at him. “Fine, I can see I’m going to have to do this all myself.” She took his arm, none too gently, lifted it over her head, scooted closer, and pulled his hand down around her back. “Was that too hard?” she sweetly asked.
17 jaws dropping open at the same time make an indescribable sound. Hermione, who would probably have been the best person to describe it, couldn’t. Even years later. The closest she ever got was “snuckslurp”, which sounded so ridiculous that she couldn’t even find it in herself to castigate Ron for bursting into hysterical laughter the first (and last) time she ever told him.
Harry sat there, looking as though he’d watched Nearly Headless Nick play Quidditch for England. Ginny wiggled back and forth, trying to make herself more comfortable. She finally used a knuckle to prod Harry into a more comfortable configuration, then sighed with relief as she relaxed back into him and closed her eyes.
Hermione was tempted to giggle when she caught sight of Harry’s face, but the oppressive silence in the room deterred her. Some of the younger years, though, irreverent as always, started whispering at the scene. And, when nothing else happened, they turned back to their gobstones, their Exploding Snap cards, and, in one corner, their Every-Flavor Beans Roulette.
The Portrait Hole opened then, admitting Lavender and Parvati. The two late-comers made it halfway across the room before they saw the couple on the couch. The resultant squealing would have just about straightened Hermione’s hair, but it didn’t last long enough, as Ginny had pulled her wand and cast Silencio on them before they could get out anything more than “Sque--”.
Lavender opened her mouth to, presumably, try to yell at Ginny, but the look in the red-head’s eyes made Parvati grab Lavender’s arm and drag her off up the stairs to their dorm.
Ginny relaxed again against Harry, and closed her eyes. She hoped that Harry wasn’t able to feel how quickly her heart was beating. It had been a calculated risk--Harry was rather volatile at times, and though she knew he would never hurt her purposefully, she also knew that he was currently wound so tightly he might not be able to stop himself. She had been watching Harry over the past few days--well, she always watched Harry, but she had noticed something a couple of days ago that seemed to start him into a slide of depression and anger. His mood had gotten progressively blacker, and then today, right after lunch, something had happened to drastically accelerate the process, and she was worried.
It might have helped if she’d been able to find out what exactly had happened, but none of her sources could tell her. The most information she’d discovered came from one of her Hufflepuff girls, who had seen Harry leaving the Headmaster’s Office in what was almost a run. She hadn’t gotten a good look at his face, but reported that he had been cursing like a Hippogriff wrangler.
But her ploy seemed to be working. She’d been sitting with him for more than a couple of minutes now, and nothing had broken, nothing had flown around the room (except one particularly vicious Exploding Snap card), and Harry hadn’t yelled.
Ginny couldn’t quite see Harry’s face from her position, and that was usually a sad thing, as Harry’s face was one of her favorite sights. But she found herself rather thankful right now. She didn’t really want to see how upset he was.
But as she sat there, trying to slow her heart, and praying to all the past Sorcerors whose names she knew, and inventing a few more, she noticed something.
To understand, one must realize that Ginny could catalogue all the times she and Harry had touched. She kept a mental tally of those times, and they were ranked in a rough order. Pats on the arm, touches on the shoulder, even helping her adjust her grip on her wand for the DA were all there. But at the top, the very pinnacle of touch, was when she had awoken in Harry’s arms in the Chamber of Secrets. It had been the worst day of her life, and she had spent quite a while considering the paradox of such a wonderful Harry-Touch coming at such a horrible time.
But now, there was something she had never felt before. Where his arm touched her back and where her head was resting on his shoulder she could feel a kind of a thrumming sensation. She couldn’t describe it very well even to herself. Later on, when she tried to tell her mother, she would liken it to if a water balloon were filled to just below the point of bursting--it was a feeling of too much . . . too much something being held back by the merest of margins. And Ginny was very relieved that the something was continuing to be restrained. It scared her a bit, that fullness thrumming at Harry’s skin, but it also caused some rather intense reactions in her body that she didn’t think she wanted to analyze right then.
Ginny found her eyes drifting shut. She really was very comfortable, inside Harry’s arm, feeling the warmth of his body. But it didn’t seem very appropriate for her to fall asleep on him, so she shook herself and sat up.
“Thank you, Harry,” she said as she stood up. She had to work at keeping a straight face--he looked as gobsmacked as she had ever seen him. Seeing that he wasn’t going to be doing any talking, or, she guessed, moving in the near future, she leaned down and kissed him, very gently, on the lips. “Have a good sleep, okay?”
Not waiting for an answer, she turned and headed off to her dormitory, dreading the conversation Hermione was sure to inflict upon her.
Slowly the room emptied, dribbles and drabbles of students drifting off to bed, cautiously skirting the end of the couch where Harry was still sitting. Hermione was among the last to go up, and she was daring enough to pat Harry on the shoulder and wish him a quiet “Good night”, although she was pretty sure he never even noticed.
The house elves slipped in quietly, cleaning as quickly and efficiently as always, and taking great pains to not disturb the young man on the sofa.
The lights dimmed by themselves, candles winking out, fire dimming to a soft glow, and finally the common room was dark, quiet, and empty--well, almost empty. The shadowed shape of a teen-age boy, with messy black hair, unattractive spectacles, and a thoroughly flummoxed expression on his face, was the only (assumedly) animate form. When the grandfather clock in the corner chimed its soft two o’clock bells, the figure started, then stood up, and climbed the stairs to his own dorm, there to have wonderfully vivid and extremely confusing dreams.
Chapter 2: In Which Harry Learns a Few Lessons, and Goes to Breakfast
Author's Notes: Apparently, I forgot to post this here. I do apologize.
It would be incorrect to say that the whole of Gryffindor House was waiting in the Common Room the next morning. After all, Ron was, as usual, still asleep, and Harry hadn’t come down yet, either. But almost everyone else seemed to have chosen this morning as the one time that they shouldn’t sleep in, and shouldn’t go to breakfast early.
Harry, of course, woke up at his normal time. He scratched, yawned, clambered out of bed, and headed for the shower. Halfway there, his brain caught up with events, and tossed up an image of himself, sitting on the sofa, with his arm around Ginny. The resulting thud as he ran into the wall was almost enough to wake Ron. Well, not really. But the ensuing yell of pain came pretty close.
Harry sat on the floor for a bit, which allowed the pain in his head to decrease, but the confusion in his brain to increase, reaching new heights. What was he going to do? He knew that Ginny would be down in the Common Room, waiting for him. Or, at best, in the Great Hall eating. But would she mention the . . . incident. . . from last night? Would she rather he just pretend it had never happened?
Harry finally picked himself up off the floor and headed in to take his shower. Contemplation in the shower was nothing new for Harry. He rather enjoyed being able to take as much time as he wanted in the shower, something he rarely had the opportunity to do at Privet Drive, and the mindless routine allowed him to prepare himself for whatever might happen that day.
But today, he exited the shower without anything resembling a solution to the problem he faced. Although he had realized that perhaps there was some good to come from Ginny’s actions last night. In the light of morning, and a better and happier mental mood, the troubles from the last couple of days, what with Snape being an unmitigated git, and the Slytherins stepping up their petty vindictiveness, seemed to diminish in their importance. Of course, there was still the meeting he’d had with Dumbledore, where the Headmaster, using all the sensitivity of a krup with colic, had told Harry that he was going to have to die so that Voldemort could be killed. But even that seemed less important when compared with the prospect of facing a beautiful red-headed girl. After all, all Voldemort could do was kill him. But Ginny--well, she had all sorts of power over him, and it had, somehow, become very important to Harry that things should go right between them.
Clean, dressed, and supposedly ready for the day, Harry stood indecisively in the dorm room, where Ron was slowly awakening. Harry had a love/hate relationship with the mirror next to his bed. He was pretty sure the mirror was a girl, what with the comments it kept making if Harry changed in front of it. And while occasionally it could alert him to spots on his uniform, or a grape jelly smear on his cheek, most of the time it just disparaged his hair and its inability to stay neatly combed. Today, however, he didn’t even notice the mirror’s comments, which the mirror took poorly and decided to sulk about. Harry would wonder, for the rest of the year, how he had gotten the mirror to stop making suggestive comments to him, but for right now, he was still lost in the vast surreal landscape of How To Deal With Females.
Down in the Common Room, the Gryffindors were getting restless. Hermione, sitting in her normal chair by the fire, was alternately reading 1002 Magical Herbs, Fungi, and Slime Molds--the hard-to-find Russian translation--and looking up the stairway to the girls’ dormitory. For it wasn’t just Harry and Ron who hadn’t shown up yet; Ginny hadn’t come down either. Hermione had fallen asleep before Ginny had made it up to her room, and the younger girl had been asleep (with a rather curious smile on her face) when Hermione had checked on her this morning.
The rest of the students were loudly pondering whether they should send someone up to check on the missing people, when Ginny finally made her appearance. The room went silent, as her appearance was noted, then erupted in furious whispers, everyone alternating between wondering where she had been, where she was going, how late she got to bed last night, and when had she gotten so beautiful?
Ginny looked a question at Hermione, who shook her head slightly. Ginny nodded, then marched over to the boys’ staircase. A collective gasp arose from the watching students, and Ginny’s mouth tightened a bit in irritation. But her mission was too important to delay, much as she would have loved to bat-bogey hex them all.
Ginny knew exactly which room was Harry’s (of course she did--it was Harry, right?) and barged right in. The door opening so precipitously scared Ron, who was in the midst of climbing out of his bed, and he fell on the ground in a jumbled heap.
“Ginny!” he squeaked. “What are you doing in here? I might have been naked!”
Ginny spared him a very, very quick glance, but didn’t deign to answer his question. She walked over to Harry, looked him over, brushed an imaginary spot of lint off his shoulder, then reached down and took his hand. “Are you ready for breakfast, Harry?” she asked softly.
Harry had, of course, noticed her entrance. And had watched, fascinated, as she dismissed Ron, and walked toward him. Still unable to move, he saw her reach up to his shoulder and do something, then he felt a soft, warm hand slip into his own. He looked down, entranced by the way her fingers interlaced with his, and slowly looked up to her face. That was his undoing. The look of compassion, caring, and something else like flames, or heat lightning, or. . . or. . . a warm fire on a cold night, that he saw in her eyes rendered him motionless, speechless, and breathless.
Ginny smiled at his reaction, then gently tugged on his hand. He followed, half a pace behind her, as she took him to the door, down the stairs, and past all of Gryffindor’s open-mouthed students to exit through the Portrait Hole.
Harry didn’t notice the crowds in the Common Room, although he did see Hermione sitting in her chair smiling at him. He didn’t notice as they went through the Portrait Hole, although he would think, later, when he could think, that it must have been some magic to enable them to go through the somewhat confining opening without having to let go of each other’s hand.
As soon as the couple had gone out of sight, all but one of the Gryffindors currently in the Common Room rushed to follow them. The one hold-out was Hermione, who was standing, wand outstretched, having just finished casting a rather advanced locking charm on the Portrait Hole. “Wait a minute!” she yelled to the rather rowdy rabble. “You are NOT going to be following Harry and Ginny and bothering them! They deserve to have some peace and quiet, and I’m sure you’ll all figure it out anyway.”
In spite of repeated pleas, threats, and exhortations, she held fast to the 10-minute rule she’d imposed. By the time Hermione opened the Portrait Hole, the excitement had died down, and she and Ron (and Neville, since he just happened to have been sitting by Hermione) were able to be the first ones out anyway.
oooooooooo
The walk down to the Great Hall was quiet--Harry was still having troubles thinking coherently, which was no surprise, as approximately 73% of his brain was paying strict attention to the warmth in his hand. 1% was spent on not walking into any more walls. And the remaining 26% was involved in admiring how beautiful Ginny had become over the years--well, and castigating himself for not having noticed before.
As the doors of the Great Hall came into view, however, Harry slowed to a stop. Ginny turned to look at him quizzically, and Harry wasted (well, not really wasted, per se, but what else to call it? Devoted? Yes, devoted would do) devoted half a minute to think about how cute her face was when it looked quizzical.
Ginny finally said, “What is it, Harry?”
The boy in question decided that he should probably let go of her hand, although he really didn’t want to. When he did so, Ginny looked at her now free hand and back to Harry with disappointment.
Harry cleared his throat. “Ginny. Um, well. Here’s the thing.” She looked even more disappointed, so he hastened to explain. “Please, don’t look like that, Gin. I just thought maybe you wouldn’t want the rest of the school to spread rumors about you and me.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly do you think they’ll be saying about us?”
We’re an “us!” Harry thought giddily. “That--that you and I are going out together. I mean,” he continued, nervously, “you sat with me last night, and held my hand this morning, and I’m not really sure what you want that to mean. And if we walk in holding hands like that, then everyone will believe that you’re my. . . my girlfriend.” There, he’d said it. He hadn’t wanted to put any sort of stop to whatever relationship they were having, but if Ginny were helping him as just a friend, then he didn’t want her to have to put up with all the garbage that would come with being known as “Harry Potter’s Girl”.
Ginny tilted her head a bit. “Let me guess--you don’t want people to make fun of me, or hurt me because they think it’ll be a good way to get at you, right?”
Harry squirmed a bit, but admitted that she was right.
Ginny looked around, and pulled Harry to the receiving room right off the entry hall, locking the door after they went through it.
“Harry,” she started. “Can we do a little what-if game?”
Harry nodded.
“Okay, let’s pretend that you and I are friends. Just friends, nothing more, we say ‘hi’ to each other in the halls, but that’s about it.”
Harry didn’t like this idea, that he and Ginny could only be distant friends, although it pretty accurately summed up the first few years of their relationship. He nodded for Ginny to go on.
“Okay, now, say someone like, oh, I don’t know, Draco Malfoy, decides that his being a rich, pompous windbag means he gets certain privileges with a poor, pureblood girl like me.”
One of the glass cases in the room shattered. Harry looked at the floor, abashed at his rather violent display, but Ginny bent down a bit and looked up into his eyes. “Harry, do I need to explain any more?”
Harry shook his head. “No, I, um, I get your point. It doesn’t really matter what people think, whether they think we’re dating, or whatever.”
“Right. And. . . ?” Ginny continued.
Harry looked puzzled. “And. . .?”
“And who knows this?”
Harry looked even more puzzled.
Ginny sighed. “Harry, do you think Professor Snape knows I’m your friend?”
Harry nodded, still puzzled.
“And do you think, oh, let’s see, Draco the Amazing Bouncing Ferret knows I’m your friend?”
Harry chuckled a bit, then nodded.
“Now, do you think that Draco might have told his father?”
Another nod.
“And if Lucius Pretty-Boy Malfoy knows I’m your friend, then. . .”
“Then Voldemort knows! Oh, Ginny, I’m so sorry! I never meant to put your fam--”
“Shush, Harry. Stop it right now.”
Harry stopped.
“Now, were you and I good friends before my first year here?”
Harry thought for a bit. “Well, um, we knew each other. . .”
“Yes, Harry, we knew each other, if you classify my squeaking and running away from you as actually knowing you.”
Harry grinned. “Yeah, it was kind of hard to find out your favorite color when you couldn’t even talk to me.”
Ginny smiled wryly. “Well, I’m glad that we’ve both grown up a bit.”
Harry nodded emphatically, then blushed and looked away from her obviously-more-grown-up figure.
Ginny smirked a bit at that, and took a deep breath. “So, if we weren’t good friends then, and Lucius Smarms-a-lot Malfoy still put a stupid enchanted diary into my cauldron, then how is it your fault that our names are known to the Death Eaters and Tom?”
Harry stood there. He opened his mouth to refute the idea, but couldn’t seem to make any words appear that would let him take credit for the danger the Weasleys were in.
“Close your mouth, dear, flies are getting in.”
Harry shut his mouth, but it fell right back open as he processed what she’d said.
“Dear?” he squeaked.
“Yes?” Ginny answered.
“No, uh, you called me ‘dear’. . .”
“And. . .”
“And you’ve never called me that before.”
“Would you prefer Harry Potter, Slayer of Basilisks, Rescuer of Maidens Fair and Bloke Most Likely to Topple Lockhart For Witch Weekly’s Wizard of the Century?”
Harry just gaped at Ginny, and she giggled. “Okay, then. ‘Dear’ it is.” She leaned up and kissed him gently on the cheek, took his hand, and started pulling him to the door. Casting a quick Alohomora, she led him out and into the Great Hall.
oooooooooo
From what Harry could remember, that was the best breakfast he’d ever had. The eggs were perfectly done, the cereal was snap-y, crackle -y, and pop-y. The orange juice had never tasted orange-er. And the kippers really looked like they were kipping.
They were joined by Hermione and Ron and the conversation flowed between all four of them. For some reason, Ron kept wincing, as if something were poking him, but Harry didn’t care enough to investigate, and decided it didn’t really matter.
When Harry had finished all the food that Ginny had put on his plate, and she had finished the last bit of pumpkin juice he’d poured for her, they both sat back and sighed happily.
“So, Harry,” began Hermione. But when Ginny shot her a rather sharp glare she paused, and then continued with, “what are you planning on doing today?”
Ron jumped in here with a heartfelt plea to go flying.
Harry just about agreed right away, but somehow, some thought process made itself known. He stopped, then turned to Ginny. “Gin, do you want to do something today?”
Ron squeaked, but by the time Harry looked over at him, all he was doing was rubbing his ribs.
Ginny looked at Hermione, then at Harry. “Why don’t you and Ron go flying--Hermione and I were planning on working on that one paper, remember, Hermione?”
Hermione nodded. “Yeah, you were wondering about the arithmantic properties of man-in-the-moon marigolds vis-a-vis gamma rays.”
Ginny nodded. “Meet me for lunch?” she asked Harry, and when he nodded, she squeezed his hand, then let go. “Have fun, boys!”
Harry stood up from the table and waved goodbye to Hermione. He turned to look at Ginny, brought his hand up for the same thing, then lowered it. Blushing slightly, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
Ginny beamed at him, then waved him away to spend the morning with her brother. The boys left, but Harry turned back to look at her one last time, and anyone who knew him well could see how much he was looking forward to being back with her, in spite of the fun of flying with his second-favorite Weasley.