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The Weight of the After
By Paperyink

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Category: Post-HBP, Post-DH/AB
Characters:Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley, Severus Snape
Genres: Action/Adventure, Drama, Romance
Warnings: Mild Language, Violence
Rating: R
Reviews: 14
Summary: As the trials against those complicit in Voldemort's regime begin, Ginny Weasley must come to terms with the worst year of her life- on record. But not every war story should be told.
Hitcount: Story Total: 12885; Chapter Total: 2927
Awards: View Trophy Room




Author's Notes:
It's been three million years, but I'm finally reposting the story that is taking me my whole life to write. A lot has been rewritten, so start from the top. Thanks for reading! If you like, please consider reviewing and/or reblogging on tumblr. xx Now with new updates!




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Chapter 1: Is A Reluctant Request Really a Request?

“No, I'm not the same. I'm dead. They put nylon stockings on me, dyed my hair, polished my fingernails. God help me. But I'm dead.”

– Enemies: A Love Story (1989)


August 12, 1998

It was depressing, or perhaps hilarious, that Kingsley Shacklebolt hated a job he’d only had for three months. Before then, he’d never even spared a thought about what being Minister for Magic would entail, mostly because he never thought he would be Minister for Magic, not with his career path, the people with whom he chose to associate, or his general sense of decency. But, if anything, he’d assumed his days of taking orders would be over. A naive hope, he thought bitterly, as he stood between two overgrown flutterby bushes, about to knock on a door and further ruin the lives of the family behind it just because someone said so.

He was two hours and 17 minutes past the point he was supposed to do it, too– a fact that would have surely caused three-months-ago-Kingsley to break out in hives. “You’d arrive early to your own execution,” Sirius used to laugh, mirth reviving the last sliver of youth in his haggard features, whenever he’d round the corner into the kitchen of Grimmauld Place and find Kingsley, sitting at the burnt wooden table in front of fresh parchment and a full bottle of ink, at least fifteen minutes before the start of every Order meeting. It had become a running joke, though, he often had to remind himself, most of the people who’d run with it were now too dead to appreciate this spectacular 180.

But even three coffee breaks, a 90-minute lunch, and a conversation he’d purposefully initiated with “Gabbing Gabby” Delmonico from the Department of Magical Games and Sports couldn’t distract him from the fact that he had a job to do, no matter how much he loathed himself for it. He had been told more than once that creating a better world with a better government would come with costs. But that was part of the problem; what Kingsley had inherited was not a good government. Not yet. 

That thought alone made him want to turn around and run back towards the apparition point. But Kingsley, a loyal servant to the greater good, tilted his head towards the sky, whispered, “fuck,” for good measure, and then finally let his fist connect with the entrance of the familiar, mismatched house.

He knocked the agreed-upon code as a safety measure– a double safety measure; the wards around the property wouldn’t let just anyone pass– but it did little to quell the fears of those on the other side of the door, judging by the way it flew open, creaking on its hinges with the force, and by the fact that within seconds, Kingsley was on the other end of five wands. The wand pointed at his forehead trembled in Molly Weasley’s right hand, her left occupied with urging the owners of the four other wands back behind her. Her eyes scanned her surroundings at an impressively frantic speed until they screeched to a halt on his face, lighting up with recognition.

“Afternoon,” he said pleasantly, forcing the corners of his mouth up into a polite smile.

“Oh, it’s Kingsley,” she sighed with relief, as she pulled him into one of her trademark hugs. “It’s only Kingsley.”

“Obviously it’s only Kingsley,” Ron said, rolling his eyes, as he, Bill, Percy, and Harry returned to their seats at the kitchen table. “We’ve been watching him pace around outside for the past five minutes.” 

There was a flush splashed across Molly’s cheeks when she stepped back, stark against her skin’s uncharacteristic pallor, and she gave him a sheepish look. He smiled and shook his head to show he understood. War was an untrustworthy business.

“Terribly sorry to have startled you, I should have sent word.” He placed an apologetic hand on Molly’s shoulder and exchanged nods with her boys. Around them, the house took a collective calming breath, and the atmosphere returned to the resting state it had been in when he last visited two months before–quiet, consuming grief.

"No, no, it’s… It is so lovely to see you! So lovely,” Molly gasped, smoothing the creases in his purple robes distractedly, then cupped her hands to her face. “I'm just knocking up some dinner right now. I'm sure we have enough for one more…” She flitted over to the large bubbling pot on the stove and surveyed the stock of ingredients laid out on the counter.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t–“

“I hope you’re in the mood for beef stew. Although, I don’t…” She trailed off as she jabbed her wand through the open window facing the garden. Two potatoes floated through to join the chopped ones on the counter and promptly began peeling themselves. Molly’s brow furrowed with barely-contained nervous energy. "I’m sorry, but Arthur didn't tell me you were coming ‘round… Are you here for him? Or– or for Harry?" At the sound of his name, Harry tensed, his expression caught in a peculiar combination of dread and resignation.

As three carrots zoomed over from the pantry, Kingsley held his hand out in polite refusal. “Please, don’t go through the trouble. I had… quite a big lunch. And no. Actually, I'm here to speak with Ginny."

Molly froze. The potatoes collided with a muffled thump; the carrots rolled onto the floor. "Ginny?" she repeated, puzzled. "Why would you–,” she drew back warily, “why?" The boys traded equally confused glances.

Genuine surprise flashed across his face before he could stop it, but he quickly replaced it with his most reassuring– and most deflecting– expression. "I have a few quick questions for her, that’s all,” he said gently. He shook back his sleeve and made a show of checking his watch. “And I have to get back to the Ministry very soon, so they won’t take too long. Where can I find her?" 

“Hang on, Kingsley,” Bill interjected, eyeing him carefully. “If something’s going on that involves Ginny, we’ll find out about it eventually. Why don’t you save all of us the time and energy and tell us now?”

Kingsley pasted on a bland smile, a well-worn look in a life spent playing chicken with criminals and pretending not to be part of an underground resistance. “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it, to Bill and the kitchen in general. “I can’t do that. You understand.”

Bill thinned his lips but gave a short nod, his dissatisfaction at Kingsley’s response rolling off of him in waves. Molly’s eyes flickered between the two of them for a beat, but then she said, "She’s out flying in the paddock."

“Thank you.” Kingsley managed to uncoil some of the tension in her shoulders with a well-timed wink and then swept off towards the Burrow's massive backyard. The door creaked closed behind him, but not before he heard Ron whisper to his brothers and Harry, "what d’you reckon that's about?" to which Percy quickly responded, “regardless of the intentions of his business, we shouldn’t intrude– no, don’t intrude, Ron,” over the sounds of two chairs scraping on tiles.

Shaking his head, Kingsley trekked through the tangled weeds on the edge of the field towards Ginny. She soared overhead, at least a hundred metres in the air, pulling rapid loops and dives that Kingsley was sure would make anyone else dizzy or dead. When she caught sight of Kingsley, she halted mid-trick, her plait swaying with displaced force.

Kingsley did not wave; he had been repeatedly reminded of the delicacy and formality of this situation, and according to several stiff mustaches, waving was firmly filed under informal, comma, fun. He did, however, draw his fingers to his palm once, beckoning her to come down.

"I knew I should’ve gone on the lam yesterday," she panted as she landed (hard, and by the looks of it, deliberately carelessly), brushing windswept hair from her face. “This is what I get for procrastinating.”

"You’re not surprised to see me here,” he surmised.

She leaned against her broom and gestured to him from head to toe, still catching her breath. “If I were the kind of person that couldn’t figure out why you were here, you wouldn’t be here in the first place.” She gave him a dim, knowing smile. “I mean, if I’m wrong and the world is suddenly a very different place than I remember, I’ll take my birthday present now, before my unicorn-themed surprise party.”

She decorated her humor in protective spikes, nudging the conversation into the safety zone of parody before it even began. Kingsley allowed it for the moment, playing along and taking his turn: a standard chuckle, with three ha’s and corresponding shoulder shakes. But any pretending ebbed away in the heavy silence that worked its way in afterwards, yawning wide between them. Finally, Kingsley said, quietly and cautiously, "we need you to come in, Ginny."

Her eyes darted away as if she were processing what he’d said, but no one had ever mistaken Ginny Weasley as slow on the uptake and Kingsley wouldn’t start then. Abruptly, she cocked her head to the side and flung her pointer finger in the air. "Hang on, wait– wait,” she said sternly. “Don't say anything else." She drew her wand from her robes and quietly muttered "Muffliato," toward the shrubbery where Ron and Harry were undoubtedly attempting to eavesdrop. One of them cursed, “ah, bugger all,” and Kingsley chuckled for real this time. Ginny stowed her wand, apparently satisfied with her spells, and motioned for him to continue.

"I know you've been expecting this. Everyone we've talked to so far has named you as the leader– has said you and Neville Longbottom were at the front of the action the whole time and took… the brunt of the punishment."

Ginny nodded. "Well, that's because it's mostly true," she said vaguely, scuffing her shoes against the ground. “Am I going to be brought in for questioning?”

Concern washed over Kingsley. “This isn’t the regime forcing you to talk upon penalty of death. You’re not the one being put on trial.” He sighed and dragged his hand down his face; bureaucracy was exhausting. “There are proper channels, official protocols for situations like this one, and I want you to know that we would be following them if we had the time– or the infrastructure. The last thing I’d ever want to be is here on official orders.”

She shrugged, but there was a curious look of resignation on her face that Kingsley had no frame of reference for. “I dunno what they’re hoping to get from a teenage girl with PTSD and an attitude problem.”

He paused, a bit startled by her description of herself and unsure about how to answer the question. “Well,” he started, “we’ve been told that you’re the one to talk to if we want the truth… about what happened.”

She snorted, her mouth twisting into an unhappy smile. “Oh, come on. Sorry, but nobody wants that. Not really.” Before Kingsley could pick that apart, she heaved a loud, frustrated grunt. "I know I have to, I know. It's just…" she shrugged again, "it's not the sort of thing you want to talk about. Ever."

“You haven’t told them?” he guessed, not bothering to define who “them” was. Ginny gnawed on her bottom lip, still avoiding his gaze, and shook her head. Kingsley reached a comforting hand towards her, hesitated, and then placed it on her shoulder. "This is far from an ideal situation, I understand. But talking about it could make the difference between a 20-year sentence and a life sentence."

Ginny's eyes flashed, finally meeting his. "They're considering 20 years? Only 20 bloody years for what they've done?" she exclaimed.

"That's why we need you to testify,” Kingsley replied quickly. “You can give us more than anyone else. You can make sure they go down."

Ginny jutted out her jaw, a typical stubborn Weasley look. "Of course I'll testify. I was going to anyway."

Kingsley smiled and let out a sigh of relief. "Brilliant. The hearing's on the eighteenth. I can’t tell you how grateful I am."

The grin she responded with, the raw, brilliant kind, was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced with a sense of urgency. "I appreciate it, you asking for my help now, instead of…” she trailed off. "But let's do this as quiet as possible, and keep my mother away from the courtrooms as well, yeah? There's no way to stop those gits," she gestured towards the Burrow, "and it's bound to come out eventually anyway, but for now, please, Kingsley," she asked beseechingly, "after everything, she doesn't need this."

Kingsley nodded but sighed. "The hearing won't be a full court, but it'll be open to the public, including the press. There's nothing I'd like more than to ban anyone nonessential from attending, but we can't inhibit freedom of the press when we've just got it back." 

Ginny tsked. "Shame. I didn't want to deal with,” she waved her hand dismissively, “any of this until, I dunno, 19 years from now, under a heady cocktail of old age, firewhiskey and mincemeat pies." 

He frowned at her curiously. "How have you kept it hidden–?”

"Makeup these days, you should see it. It’s brilliant,” she interrupted. Her mouth twitched briefly, but then she shook her head. “Mum's too out of her mind with grief to see anything anyway. Everyone’s preoccupied, and I've…” she paused, and for the first time, Kingsley noticed the heavy tilt of her eyelids and the lines running across her forehead, too deep to belong to anyone her age. "I've been in the air more than I've been on the ground lately."

Molly wouldn’t let him leave without taking a container of stew with him, and even when he relented, it took three more polite refusals to get a foot out the door. Finally, he hastened down the weathered path away from the Burrow, eager to report his mission accomplished and end this wretched day. So eager, in fact, that he didn’t see Ginny perched on her bedroom windowsill, watching him. As he reached the edge of the wards and disapparated, he also didn’t see Ginny pull out her wand and give it a decisive flick, or the silver horse that emerged from its tip, triumphantly trotting around until it stopped mid-air, gazing at her expectantly.

And as he apparated into the offices of the Department of Magical Law enforcement to deliver his good news, he certainly didn’t see Ginny lean towards the Patronus and say in a clear, low voice, “It happened. We need to do it now,” before sending it galloping into the distance.

August 18, 1998, 6:30 AM

Ginny blew out a frustrated breath and slammed her fist into her pillow, trying for the fifth time to go back to sleep since she laid down seven hours earlier, when her mother had practically pushed her into bed, insisting that she’d need a good night’s rest to get through the “war records interview” the next day (A harmless, nothing, half-lie, she kept telling herself). But her brain was her worst enemy on a sleepless night. The world always seemed sharper in the dark than it was during the day, and the dusty silence of her room did little to compete against the clamour in her head. The trial was in less than four hours, and apparently, she’d add to the full effect by showing up in the state she was in for most of the past year: overtired and hyper-alert.

Giving up, she rolled onto her back and glared at her ceiling. She was apprehensive, strung so tight she was bound to snap, an easy thing to admit when the only one around to judge her was the beaming, post-match-euphoric Gwenog Jones pasted above her bed (and she would never). Kingsley may have been understanding and apologetic and unbearably kind, but Ginny still felt like she was being dragged along a gravel road to her own trial or, if she were lucky, to the grave that had been patiently waiting for her for nearly six years.

That was dark. Her fingers came up to swipe the purple skin under her eyes. Maybe there was something wrong with her. She snorted; there was definitely something wrong with her.

She groaned, thumping her palms on her bedspread, wishing she could– or would– talk to someone. Hermione was always an option; forced companionship from her second year on made them confidants before they ever became friends. But even if she ever managed to put out the dumpster fire inside her head, no one deserved to hear about it, not her family, not Hermione, not Luna, not Harry… not Harry… 

(“Ginny?” Harry called through a tin can, as she tore out weed after weed in the garden. But she didn’t have time to respond. She needed to get them all out now.)

(“Hey, Ginny,” Harry mouthed, interrupting her count of the cracks in the kitchen table. She sighed. Now she had to start all over.)

(“Ginny. Ginny. Ginny.” Her head snapped up, and Harry frowned at her from his perch in Hagrid’s arms, his legs swinging limply with every wracking sob from the half-giant’s body, her brother’s agonized yells deafening her left ear–

“I–, um,” he stuttered, as he drew back his outstretched hand, “we saved you a slice of treacle tart. If you want it.”)

She pinched the bridge of her nose, hard. 

Another half an hour went by before she gave into increasingly insistent hunger pangs. When she padded downstairs, it was her luck to find her mother, father and– she closed her eyes; of course– Harry, all seated at the kitchen table. As soon as her mother glared at her with her eyes narrowed, Daily Prophet in hand, Ginny’s stomach sank. She was caught. She cursed under her breath; if she couldn’t even rely on her mother's nearly three years of dedicated avoidance of that blasted paper to help keep her secret, what did she have?

"Ah, wonderful, you're up for your big interview!" her mother said, putting on the falsely cheerful voice she adopted when sniffing out lies. "Funny, I didn't see any mention of it in the paper. But there is a hearing against the Carrows today. Do you know anything about that?" She enunciated her last word by slapping the Prophet on the table.

Ginny bit her lip, searching for a way out, but the lightbulb in her brain specifically used for mum-related trickery pitifully sputtered on and off with every aborted idea that flew through her mind. She didn’t have a plan, but then again, lying had never been easier for her. She edged a cautionary hand towards her mother, not-so-subconsciously using the rules for approaching a hippogriff. 

"Fine, yes I'm testifying. But listen, before you go bonkers–”

“Before I go– I can’t believe you! Who put you up to this? Was it Kingsley? It–”

“No! He–”

“–must have been Kingsley. What was going through your head when you agreed?” 

“I–" 

“And why didn't you tell me? Why?” There must have been more to the rapid-fire interrogation than anger, but Ginny didn’t have time to investigate before her mother’s hands landed on her hips in a familiar, dangerous position. She’d better work fast; if only she could get a word in edgewise.

“Because, because– mum, listen to me!” she insisted, as her mother continued to mutter angrily. She halted mid-word and glared at Ginny, waiting for an explanation. 

Because,” she began again, “this isn’t about me. I’m just a witness, barely even a– a bystander to…” War is war and hell is hell. It’s a goddamn mantra.

Ginny shook her head irritably; she was a better actress than this. She closed her eyes, let herself go blank. Slipped into character. 

She hunched over with a small-medium injection of Standard Grief™ and heaved an overwhelmed sigh. “They’re asking me to confirm dates, give context to the things that happened to other people… and I can do that because I was there; I saw everything. And the people that should be going up there, the ones that actually did something, are gone.” She brought up a hand to rub at her eyes, then grasped her opposite shoulder. “They can’t tell their stories, but I can. Don’t you think the fact that I’m still here means that I have a duty to make things right for them?”  

Her mother wasn’t convinced. Her frozen facade hadn’t even melted a degree. "You actually expect me to believe that this has nothing to do with you? That there isn't anything you're not telling me?"

“How could there be?” Ginny snapped, squaring her stance. Every lie had a morsel of truth, and here was hers. “I did nothing but watch my friends charge forward and fight and die for what they believed in. You made quite sure of that.”  

The last part came out in an intoxicating and triumphant bite, like it was part of an old, well-worn argument, the kind you brought up on Christmases and birthday dinners for an adrenaline fix. But any satisfaction quickly disappeared as her mum’s face fell, her breath hitching in the quiet way that it did whenever her children truly hurt her. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her father’s disapproving gaze. 

Ginny measured out a slow, calming breath. "I’m not trying to start a fight,” she said. “But I’ve told you a thousand bloody times, I am a pureblood. They barely even noticed me." She threw in a bitter laugh, casting her gaze over her shoulder, and added, “As if I did anything useful enough to be noticed.”  

“Ginny…” her father chided softly, perturbed.

She shook her head. “This isn’t about me,” she repeated. “This has never been about me. This is about the chance to get justice for the people that deserve it the most. That’s all. There’s nothing to worry about." 

"Nothing to worry about?" her mother said incredulously. "Well, I might go to this hearing and see–" 

“You can, if you really want to,” Ginny interrupted, shrugging casually, even as a jolt of panic clawed through her insides. “But if I had a choice, I wouldn’t decide to sit through hours of testimony about a war I just stopped fighting, especially in a place as sterilized of empathy as a courtroom.” 

Disdain flooded her mother’s face. Ding ding ding. Give her a damn BAFTA already.

"Mum," Ginny put her hand on her shoulder, placating, closing in. “The truth is, the only thing that could hurt me is seeing you there, putting yourself through other people’s pain. Please don’t make me go through that– isn’t there enough of it to go around?” She let that hang in the air for a moment, then pulled on her ‘bright side’ grin. “Anyway, Mrs. Tonks is supposed to come over with Teddy later, right? No sense in missing that little monster and his party tricks." 

Ginny knew that her mother had one more protest in her, but when she opened her mouth to say it, her father interjected.

"Molly," he said firmly, "Ginny knows what she's doing, and if she says not to worry, we shouldn't worry." 

Her mother gave her one more look of mingled concern and consideration. "Okay, fine,” she said finally, then added, pointedly, “I trust you." 

Oh shit. And she had been doing so well.

I trust you. The parent’s most lethal weapon; a trap designed to make shame eat children from the inside out. Ginny navigated through it by heart now, but it didn’t lessen the sting.

She swallowed thickly and mustered up a strained smile in response, darting her gaze away from her parents as quickly as possible without raising more suspicion. Deciding a piece of toast would be a good contender to throttle the guilt dancing in her stomach, she went to sit across from Harry. He had stayed surprisingly silent throughout her conversation with her mother, but he was looking at her with an expression that she didn’t like. You like all of his expressions, she thought before she could stop herself, and, dammit, were all inner voices as treacherous as hers?

Twenty minutes of sleepy silence later, her father refolded his newspaper. "Well, I'm off everyone, see you later tonight."

"When will you be back?" her mother asked casually, or at least tried to; the line of her spine was noticeably tense, and she was struggling not to glance up from the pan of bacon she was frying. Concealing emotions had never been any Weasley’s strongest suit. Her father smiled fondly at the back of her mother’s head.

"Not until late,” he replied. “We're still bringing in hundreds of cursed objects every day, and it doesn't look like it'll be stopping soon, with all the Death Eaters we haven't rounded up waging bloody guerrilla warfare.” He kissed his wife, bid Harry and Ginny goodbye, and disapparated.

"Harry, shouldn't you be heading off as well?" her mum asked, waving a spatula in his direction.

"Yeah Mrs. Weasley, I’ll be off soon." He cast a glance at the ceiling, "I'm just waiting for Ron to greet the land of the living so we can go together."

Her mum rolled her eyes. "Oh that boy,” she complained, slapping the spatula down and marching towards the stairs. “He'd sleep for eternity if I wasn't there to wallop him out of bed.” Each step her mother took came with a corresponding stair creak, and the minute she reached the one that meant she was fully out of earshot (second story, fifth step up), Harry rounded on Ginny. She idly spread jam on another piece of toast, jerked her head towards the stairs and said, "Subtle."

He ignored her. "You’re lying, aren’t you,” he said knowingly, and then, a little less sure, “Are you lying?"

Ginny extended her time to answer by cramming the entire piece of toast in her mouth. She chewed slowly and took a long, slow sip of tea, but the thing nobody ever thought about was how much effort physical comedy took, and how long a person could keep it up was entirely dependent on how much patience said person had.

“Why would I lie?” she asked, in monotone for perversity’s sake.

”I don’t know, you tell me.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow at him. “So these are the Auror Academy’s finest interrogation tactics at work."

Ginny.

Ginny sighed and rubbed her temples tiredly. "This is too dramatic for seven in the morning. Do you realise that it’s seven in the morning?” Harry shrugged dismissively. Incensed, she pointed her finger at him, glaring. "Okay, here’s the thing. Mum is delicate, and these trials feel like… like a– I don’t know, like a bath in acid, or like your shoes are made of sandpaper or something. I know you agree with me.” He nodded begrudgingly, and she felt a semblance of relief; at least they were on the same page about something. “Right. So it doesn’t matter what the trial’s about, or what I’m doing there. If I can spare her the details, I will,” she said, and if there was a warning in there, neither of them mentioned it.

"But what are you doing?” he demanded, urgent worry crossing his features. “What are you testifying about?"

Ginny rolled her eyes so hard she probably looked possessed. "I already said. And it’s not as sensational as it sounds. The only reason anyone besides me should be going to this trial is if seeing democracy in action helps them get a good wank in the bank," she said sarcastically.

"Ginny–” he repeated, sidestepping her joke.

Why do you keep saying my name?” she grumbled, accidentally saying it out loud. Mortification began to seize through her, but then she realised that he’d stopped in his tracks, cheeks growing red. 

"I– what? I don’t– what? No, Gi– look,” he said, shaking his head irritably, like a wet dog. Ginny almost bit her lip to keep from laughing, but then he said, “what I’m saying is, you can tell me. You can tell me what’s going on with you.”

If he actually believed that she’d grab onto that offer like a helping hand, he had another thing coming. She eyed him tiredly and pursed her lips in a tight, thin line. He did not take this well. He leaned forward, too close, his palms flat against the table, fixing her with a probing look that she’d seen him give to other people, but never her.

“Something is wrong,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

She shook her head. “No."

“Yes,” he insisted.

She shook her head more vigorously this time, even as an unpleasant chill began to curl around her spine. “There’s nothi–”

“Something is still wrong," he drilled over her. “I can feel it.” He nodded to her. “I can see it in the way you’ve been acting since the end of the war. There’s something you’re not talking about, and I want to know why.” It barely scratched the surface, but it was enough that the walls started to close in around her, enough that her breathing rhythm went from waltz to foxtrot, enough that she had to squeeze her eyes shut. Her heartbeat thumping in her ears stifled everything else but when he continued, his voice was unnaturally loud and clear. “Why are you lying? What happened to y–”

No.

"Don't," she gritted out, eyes flying open. "Just… don't."

Harry glared at her and she glared right back, the pair of them caught in a battle of wills. History told her that neither would blink first. But to her shock, just when she began to think they’d go on with this until they were two piles of dust and bone, he fell back in his chair. “Okay,” he said, and he let out a resigned sigh. “I won’t.” 

“...Good,” she said, too surprised to think of something more eloquent.

It was a rare defeat. But he was still looking at her. 

At first, it was with his trademark, infuriating stubbornness. But then– without warning– it changed. His gaze went soft, and something flickered between them; something from before. It zinged through her, crackling, and she saw it happen to him too. Suddenly, it was as if they were once again sitting under their favorite willow tree on the edge of the lake, pressed close against the early summer wind, battling it out over who could tell the worst joke– 

“Ginny…” he murmured, tipping forward and inching his hand towards hers. But before he could reach her she jolted her hand away.

Because no, no, they were not. They were here, at the other side of the end of the world, and a jar of blackcurrant preserves was the only thing cushioning the suffocating space between them. 

“Look,” she cleared her throat, trying to ignore the hurt that flashed across his face as he dragged his hand back towards him, “I don’t know what you think you know, but there’s nothing to tell. Everything is fine,” she told him. “I’m fine,” she threw in at the last second, and with it went any hope at all of convincing him to back off. 

He gave her a disbelieving look. "Oh, well now that you say you’re fine, I can forget all about it, right?" he deadpanned. 

“Caught on finally, have you?” she retorted, glaring at him. She heaved a heavy sigh at her own lack of foresight; after this spectacular display, he was probably more likely to go than before. He might even make a grand entrance just to prove a point. She would never understand how he kept up his nobility act because it sure as hell seemed exhausting from her end.

Harry worked his jaw in what looked to be an almost painful way, then tried and failed to say something. He grunted in frustration and finally said, "I just… are you all right?"

An astonished snort punched out of Ginny before she could stop it, and then she was shaking with laughter, clutching her chest to catch her breath. It wasn’t the reaction Harry had expected, given the increasingly concerned look on his face. Once she managed to contain herself, she choked down one more laugh and smiled at him ruefully. "Don’t ask a question if you don’t really want the answer."



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