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SIYE Time:12:07 on 28th March 2024
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The Difference a Day Makes
By Zannie

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Category: Post-OotP
Characters:Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley
Genres: General
Warnings: Sexual Situations
Story is Complete
Rating: PG
Reviews: 13
Summary: Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny try to come to terms with the events at the Ministry of Magic told from Hermione and Ginny's perspective. One-Shot. Missing Moment.
Hitcount: Story Total: 4781







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The Difference a Day Makes


Hermione Granger was having a very bad day.

The sun hadn’t even risen, and the day had already stretched out in dull, exasperating interminability. This didn’t bode well for the remaining twenty hours of the day.

She’d been lying awake in the hospital wing for more than three hours now, and it was still too early to turn on enough light to read by without straining her eyes.

And on top of the basic frustration of being trapped in the nearly dark on the hospital wing, there was something else she had to deal with: wheeze in, rasp out. The sounds drifted over from the bed next to hers.

The boredom and monotony would be bad enough, but she also had to listen to Ron breathing. The sound wasn’t really a snore–despite her aggravated state of mind, she couldn’t legitimately claim that Ron was snoring–but it was a very textured breathing nonetheless. And it was about to drive Hermione insane.

Wheeze in. Rasp out. Wheeze in. Rasp out. Again. And again. And again.

She had tried to distract herself as soon as she’d woken up. She’d begun going over incantations in her mind, concentrating on each detail with immaculate precision. When she’d run out of incantations, she’d started to rehearse the history of Hogwarts, relevant people and events floating across her mind with tantalizing clarity.

But eventually she’d grown bored even with that. Now she couldn’t think of anything. Well, anything but the sound of Ron’s breathing–his steady, insistent, grating breathing.

Wheeze in. Rasp out. Wheeze in. Rasp out. Wheeze in. Rasp out.

Hermione felt like her whole life must have been lived to the slow tempo of that incessant noise.

She shifted in her bed. Straightened her nightgown around her legs so it wasn’t riding up to her hips. Smoothed down her covers, turning the sheet down neatly with a sharp fold. Then she reached around to plump her pillows, pulling her ribs painfully as she did so.

Wheeze in. Rasp out.

One would think that Ron would have done enough sleeping in the days they’d been on the hospital wing. After all, how much rest did a person need? After lying around for days on end, surely he shouldn’t be able to sleep so deeply. And so long. And so loudly.

Wheeze in. Rasp out.

Lazy. That’s what it was. Lazy and inconsiderate. The nerve of him. How did he have the gall to just lie there like a lump for hours, without showing any signs of waking? Even in the dim light, she could see that his mouth was hanging open, and his red hair was sticking out in all directions against the pillow.

Wheeze in. Rasp out.

One more wheeze, and Hermione swore she would scream. She didn’t care whom she woke up, whom she terrified. There was only so much a person could take.

Wheeze–

She didn’t scream. Instead, she grabbed one of her pillows and flung it ruthlessly at the bed beside her. It struck Ron square in the face, making a very satisfying swooshing noise.

His raspy exhalation transformed into confused sputters as Ron jerked awake at the impact. He popped up into a sitting position, his eyes immediately wide, if not quite alert. “Whas’it?” he mumbled. “Wha’s happ’ning?”

“Wake up!” she demanded sharply, glaring at her friend in frustrated annoyance.

It took a minute, but Ron eventually realized that there was no emergency. And that Hermione had apparently just woken him from his slumbers out of spite. He scowled in her direction and grumbled, “Why’d you do that?”

“You were snoring,” Hermione insisted, shamelessly fibbing–since she had already admitted to herself that his breathing didn’t really constitute true snoring. “And there’s only so much of that a person can take before she’s driven absolutely bonkers.”

Ron grumbled some more under his breath, but Hermione didn’t try very hard to interpret the specific complaints. Eventually, he twisted his lips into an unpleasant smirk and muttered, “Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

Which might be the most infuriating thing a person could say to another in such a situation. “The whole bed is wrong!” Hermione exclaimed, in what was supposed to be an ironic turn of phase but ended up being an agonized wail. “I’m sick of this bed. Sick of it!”

She moved unconsciously as she spoke, and a sharp pain shot up her right side. Hermione grunted involuntarily in response and clutched at her side–which did nothing to diminish the pain.

Ron, who had been watching this performance moodily, altered his annoyed expression enough to give a sympathetic cringe at her obvious discomfort. “I’m ready to get out of here too,” he said eventually, in what she supposed was a companionable drawl.

Hermione sighed. “Sorry,” she told him. “I’m not having a good day.”

Ron stared out the window on the far wall, even though the drapes obscured the view. “And the sun’s not even up.”

Shaking her head and embarrassed by her outburst, Hermione reclined back against the pillow and waited for morning.

Ron didn’t speak again, and they both lay awake in silent reflection. She could still hear his breathing, but it was softer now, barely audible despite the fact that he was in the next bed.

He, like her, hadn’t yet healed from his injuries. Hermione should have allowed him to continue sleep. He probably could have used the rest, and it wasn’t his fault that Hermione was feeling frustrated and bored and useless.

She was useless. Had been pretty much useless in every way that mattered. She’d not been able to stop anything that she had suspected might happen, and then she had gotten knocked out early on and had missed most of the action.

It had been such a bizarre feeling to regain consciousness and then have to hear the others tell her about everything . . . about Sirius . . . about everything.

She supposed her emotional reactions to the news had been natural and predictable. She’d been shocked, then devastated, then sad, then kind of bewildered. And now . . .

Now she felt incredibly guilty.

It was irrational, but it was there. She felt guilty. She had been right, either through intuition or reason or knowledge or simply a lucky guess. She had been right about a lot of things–right about Sirius and about going to the Department of Mysteries. And about how Harry shouldn’t have trusted that dream.

She wished she could talk to Harry about it. There were things they needed to clear up between them. But he had closed down almost completely–wouldn’t talk about what was really important, wouldn’t come close to anything that went too deep.

It was normal, Hermione knew. And natural. Harry needed time to deal with things. But she wanted to tell him. Wanted him to know . . . something. That she wished things had worked out differently. That she wished she’d never said anything negative about Sirius, even though her fears had been well-grounded. That she wished . . . she wished she had been wrong.

“Stop brooding.”

Hermione jerked her head around and saw that Ron was studying her intently. She frowned at him. “I’m not brooding.” Obviously a lie, but one she had to cling to.

Ron’s forehead wrinkled a little. “So you were right. Big deal. It’s nothing to feel bad about. We should have listened to you all along.”

For some reason, Hermione now felt like she was suddenly on the verge of tears. She swallowed hard. “Being right isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Shrugging, Ron said matter-of-factly. “Someone’s got to be right.”

And in that moment–perhaps it was the shade and shadow–Ron didn’t look nearly as young and sloppy as he’d looked when he’d been asleep. He looked older somehow. The realization struck her like a blow. He appeared more grown-up now. More burdened and experienced.

Like he wasn’t a boy anymore.

And something about that thought made Hermione’s chest clench painfully. She wasn’t the only one who was brooding.

“You all right?” she asked softly, trying to see his face more clearly in the faint light.

“Am I all right about what?” he retorted, with a stubborn thrust of his chin.

She pressed her lips together. “About everything.”

He shrugged again and then appeared to be trying to say something.

She waited for a minute, but when he didn’t form any words, she narrowed her eyes and demanded, “Tell me.”

Ron’s lips quirked inexplicably, and he muttered under his breath, “Bossy.”

And now Hermione wanted ridiculously to smile, despite the heavy feeling that had settled in her gut. She managed to suppress it with a little effort and asked more softly, more gently, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Ron sighed, giving up at last. “I’m actually kind of embarrassed about the whole thing, if you can believe it.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “Embarrassed about what?”

“At least you got struck down in a respectable, dignified way. I, on the other hand, got loonified and then attacked by a brain.”

She tried. She really did. She tried to suppress the bubbling laughter that instinctively arose at Ron’s gloomy pronouncement. But she couldn’t, and she had to slap her hand over her mouth to stop the giggle.

“Don’t laugh,” Ron insisted, scowling at her grouchily.

The giggle became full-fledged chortling.

“Stop it, Hermione. It’s not funny. I got attacked by a brain”

And now she was howling with laughter; both of her sides were stinging painfully, but she didn’t even care.

“Fine,” Ron concluded at last, as he stared at her laughter with a strange expression on his face. Then he sighed loudly in resignation. “I suppose it’s my job to make a fool of myself.”

Hermione stopped laughing. “You weren’t a fool,” she said truthfully. “And, to be honest, neither one of us accomplished all that much.”

Their eyes met–even across the darkness–and they shared something in that look. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it was so intense, so speaking, that Hermione was suddenly terrified.

She looked away. Self-consciously patted down her messy hair. Hoped it didn’t look too frizzy.


* * *


Ginny Weasley was having a very bad day.

She and Michael Corner had called it quits not too long ago, but at breakfast she had caught him mooning over Cho. She shouldn’t be surprised. She’d known he would quickly move on. There had never been anything very serious between them anyway. It wasn’t really all that big of a deal, so she was surprised that it had ruined her morning.

What bothered her most was that she didn’t really care.

She actually had felt nothing at the sight of Michael and Cho together–not jealousy, or resentment, or sorrow, or anger. Nothing.

Ginny didn’t like the implications of this fact. It brought up lingering issues that she thought she had successfully banished. It was best not to dwell on it. Best not to reflect. Best not to dig too deeply into why she wasn’t hurt that Michael had left her and moved on to Cho so quickly. Better to just be glad she wasn’t heartbroken about it.

But she could still feel uneasy knowledge and sensations churning just below the surface of her mind.

To distract herself from these dangerous thoughts, she decided to go visit Ron and Hermione in the hospital wing. They were probably just about to go crazy now from the boredom and enforced quiet.

When Ginny burst into the room with a cheerful grin on her face, she noticed that Harry was already there.

He was sitting on a chair between their beds and looking decidedly out of it. He’d been only half-present since they returned from the Department of Mysteries. And no wonder. After everything . . . after Sirius . . .

But it made Ginny want to scream whenever she saw him. Sometimes she felt like shaking him until he lost that helpless look in his eyes. Sometimes she felt like hugging him until he could smile for real again. Sometimes she just felt like crying.

Mostly she wanted to get him to talk. If he could start to talk about it, then maybe he could begin to move past it. Or at least come to terms with it and learn to deal with everything that had happened. That’s what everyone said. Talking made things better. But she hadn’t pushed him to open up–wouldn’t push him, even though she wanted to. There was no use rushing him. People’s hearts healed on their own timetables.

So the four of them were sitting in the hospital wing, and what had started as a cheerful conversation had gradually faded into a heavy silence.

This happened a lot lately, to all of them who had returned to Hogwarts from what had occurred in the Department of Mysteries. What would start as normal and casual would somehow become tense and subdued.

“Doesn’t it feel like we’re different from everyone else now?” Ron asked out of the blue, giving voice to all of their thoughts.

Typical Ron. Not subtle, but right on target. It was exactly how she felt now as she walked the halls of Hogwarts. Like she was light-years past everyone else.

“I think it makes sense,” Hermione said seriously, in an unusually patient and tolerant response to Ron’s comment. “We’ve gone through something no one else has.”

They’d tried to approach this topic in various ways and from various angles in the past days, but they had never been able to sustain a real conversation about it.

As usual, instead of a verbal response, Hermione’s words were followed by a strange quiet. The air seemed thicker all around them, and tense waves seemed to be pulsing between them.

Harry was just staring glumly at the floor. He hadn’t said a word since Ginny had arrived.

For some reason, Ginny had the undeniable impulse to rattle him. It was irrational, of course, but irresistible. So she said clearly, “Especially Harry. He went through more than any of the rest of us. He must feel like he’s alone in the world.”

It was a very big risk–saying that. Ginny didn’t know why she had said it. And she didn’t know what kind of reaction she’d expected from Harry. Didn’t even know what kind of reaction she wanted.

But she was definitely disappointed by what happened.

She hadn’t rattled him at all. He stared at her for a minute from behind his glasses with wide, deep, green eyes. Then he just shrugged and looked away from her. “You all did as much as I did,” he mumbled.

It was a lie–they all knew it–but no one disagreed. They all understood how Harry must feel. At least, they could imagine how he must feel, never having experienced it themselves. Both betrayed and guilty, compounded by grief and confusion. A very difficult mingling of feelings.

Ginny regretted her thoughtless comment. Why had she insisted on trying to break Harry’s composure? Wasn’t he going through enough as it was?

Now she needed to cut the tension, which had just intensified ten-fold. Someone had to move them past this dark mood, this gloom, this thick, laden moment.

And Ginny was the one who could do it.

So she straightened her shoulders and asked liltingly, “By the way, what’s going on with your hair, Hermione?”

Hermione’s hair was thicker and messier than normal, but it wasn’t unusually so. However, Ginny had been forced to sacrifice someone in order to move them past the tense silence, and Hermione had been the most convenient victim.

Hermione made a despairing noise and clamped her hands down on the sides of her head in a futile attempt to press the frizz back into order.

When she saw Hermione’s agonized expression–and the automatic, anxious look she’d darted at Ginny’s brother–Ginny started to feel a little guilty. But then she noticed Harry’s expression and saw that her random, teasing comment had allowed Harry to pull himself out of his stupor.

Harry almost smiled. “It’s a little . . . wilder than usual.” The tone sounded more like Harry’s usual self than she had heard from him since they’d returned to Hogwarts.

Ginny felt herself grinning at the change in mood. Particularly Harry’s change in mood.

But Ron, on the other hand, was frowning as he studied Hermione. “It looks fine,” he said, in baffled defense.

Ginny forced herself not to giggle at the revealing nature of this unconscious remark.

Hermione was scowling at Ginny. “My hair has volume. Volume is good.”

Finally, Ginny allowed herself to laugh, in an outpouring of emotional release. “There are limits to the goodness of volume,” she quipped.

More teasing and laughing followed this comment. Ginny felt relieved and successful. She had altered the mood, raised their spirits, given them a way to act normal despite everything that had happened.

But then she noticed something that made her stop laughing. Made her stop smiling altogether.

And there was a deep ache in her chest when she realized that Harry had quietly slipped out of the room in the middle of the laughter.


* * *


Hermione had been walking around the hospital wing for thirty minutes. She was supposed to be taking it easy, but she couldn’t just lie around anymore. It was the middle of the afternoon, and it was ridiculous to still be lounging in bed.

Right now she was standing next to the window, looking out at the lawn where she was not yet allowed to go. Her eyes focused on a beech tree, underneath which Harry and Ginny were talking.

It struck Hermione then, as she watched, that Ginny was getting to be really pretty. Just now her hair was glowing like a flame in the sun.

Hermione felt a pang of something. Recognized it as envy. Her own hair didn’t look anything like that, even when it was clean and brushed.

But then she shrugged. There were more important things to focus on than one’s hair. She should really get her priorities straight. To distract herself, she limped slowly to the other window on the same wall.

“Stop pacing,” Ron grumbled. “You’re making me dizzy.”

Turning around, she saw Ron propped up on the side of his bed, staring at her with a decidedly grumpy expression. His hair was sticking up a little in the back, but it wasn’t really noticeable unless you looked for it.

Hermione–feeling suddenly tired–limped back to the beds. Instead of sitting on her own, she eased herself down until she was seated next to Ron. Her superficial jealousy of Ginny’s hair was completely forgotten as that same heavy mood closed in around them again.

He looked so exhausted and depressed that she gave him an encouraging pat on the arm. Tried to think of something cheerful to say, but ended up just releasing a sigh that sounded like surrender.

Neither spoke for a very long time.

Then Ron asked at last, in a hushed voice, “Is this what war feels like?”

Hermione closed her eyes. Ron was often clueless and occasionally bumbling, but he was occasionally stumble on something very true or profound. “I don’t know,” she whispered, entering the loaded conversation carefully. “I’ve never felt this way before. I’ve never been in a war.”

“It feels like war now. Like this is just a break between battles.” Ron had leaned to the side a little bit so that his shoulder was brushing against hers. “Now everything feels real.”

The casual pressure against her arm felt good. Felt solid. Like Ron was there, like he was with her. Like he was the realest thing in the world.

“It does,” she affirmed, shifting a little so she could feel him against her more closely. It mattered more now. More than she’d expected. And more than it had ever mattered before.

Ron’s warm presence beside her.

“It’s always been real,” Ron continued. “I know people have died before. Even Cedric. But this . . . this changed things. This . . .”

“I know,” Hermione acknowledged, when he seemed at a loss for words. Everything was different. She felt old, and experienced, and battle-worn.

“How could things change so much in just a day?”

Ron’s question was a good one. But one for which Hermione had absolutely no response.

Days could change things. Could change everything. Even passing moments could change the course of one’s life.

“Do you feel like we’ve lost Harry?” Ron asked softly, when she didn’t answer his previous question.

“No!” But Hermione’s answer had been too quick, too pat. Clearly untrue. Because it did feel like Harry had left them behind in some ways. Like he’d been at war long before they had realized there was one.

Ron shook his head. “I know he’s still our friend. But he seems different now. He’s got this whole past and this whole future.”

“We have a past too, you know. And a future.” It was true, and Hermione tried to believe it.

He was pressed up snugly beside her now, and he seemed to be generating heat. “Yes,” he said seriously. “But you know it’s not the same thing.”

“I know,” she responded softly, closing her eyes briefly against the knowledge. “I know.”

“Sometimes,” Ron began, clearly struggling to admit the next words. “Sometimes I feel like a sidekick.”

She couldn’t help but snort at the glum resignation in his voice. But she wasn’t surprised. She felt the same way herself at times. Occasionally she had even felt jealous. How stupid she had been. To want anything Harry had had to suffer.

After a minute, she smiled. Met Ron’s eyes. “That all depends on whose story you’re telling. We have a story too, you know.”

And now Ron was smiling into her eyes. Hermione suddenly flushed in embarrassment. Because it had sounded like she had said . . . like she had meant . . . that their two stories were somehow connected, somehow entwined.

Like Ron and Hermione’s story was one.

She looked away quickly and stared at the floor, hoping Ron wouldn’t read too much into her silly comment.

But then something happened. Something almost inexplicable.

Ron’s hand was on the back of her neck, underneath her thick hair. His fingers were brushing against her skin.

She turned her head and stared at him, hardly comprehending what was happening, what it meant.

It was clichéd and predictable, but, when she met Ron’s eyes again, Hermione felt like there was some kind of magnetic pull, drawing her toward him.

He was so close to her now. His face was so known, so familiar–but it was suddenly almost handsome. And his eyes were the same ones she’d seen thousands of times before, but they were now so intense. So compelling. So tender. And his clever, flexible mouth . . . his mouth–

It was on hers. Ron was kissing her. And she was kissing him back.

The kiss was soft, delicate, nothing more than a gentle brush of lip against lip. Almost like they were testing to see if this something was real.

It certainly felt real. And it felt good. Hermione was overcome with a wave of joy and pleasure.

But then it was too much. Too, too much. At precisely the same time, both of them jerked back and pulled away.

Hermione jumped up quickly, her face hot and flushed. What had she been doing on Ron’s bed anyway? Unsettled and confused, she crawled back into her own bed.

She mumbled something. And Ron mumbled something in response.

Then–satisfied that they had cleared this something up with whatever it was they had said–she rolled over with her back to him.

Thought about the kiss. Patted her hair down a little bit. Hoped it didn’t look too bushy.

And then finally she smiled.

She had no idea what had just happened. Or even why it had happened.

But maybe the day wasn’t so bad after all.


* * *


Ginny had been restless all day. She’d been wandering around outside for a while now. She’d first gone to see Hagrid. Then had chatted with Neville and Luna for several minutes, but they hadn’t been very good company.

Ginny just couldn’t settle. She couldn’t sit still. So eventually she ended up where she’d always wanted to be–she wandered over to the beech tree where Harry had been sitting by himself for two hours.

He was reading. Or, rather, pretending to read. Ginny was pretty sure he wasn’t seeing a single word on the page in front of him.

Without being invited–not even caring if she was wanted–she flopped down beside him on the soft grass.

Harry turned his head slowly to stare at her. Didn’t say a word.

Ginny hadn’t expected him to.

“You’re not really as alone as you think,” she announced, without prelude or transition.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What do you know about it?”

She was actually glad to hear him reveal genuine irritation in his voice–it was certainly better than the perpetual blankness. “Not everything,” she admitted with a shrug. “Not much, actually. But I know one thing at least. You’re not really alone.”

“Friends can only do so much,” Harry muttered bitterly. So bitterly that Ginny bit her lip in concern.

“We kept you alive,” she insisted. “You wouldn’t have made it without us.” It was true, and it was a truth she’d been clinging to for days.

Harry’s voice was harsh and rough as he spoke, and his eyes were as hard as ice or granite. “We didn’t make it.”

Not all of them anyway. Sirius . . .

But Ginny shook her head roughly, dispelling the insistent sorrow and the fear. “It’s not your fault.”

He gave a bitter, little smile. “That’s what everyone keeps saying.”

“Maybe they keep saying it because it’s true,” Ginny replied obstinately.

And at those words, Harry’s bitter, little smile suddenly became less bitter. For a moment, it was almost genuine. “Why won’t you leave me alone, Ginny?”

“Because you’re not alone,” she announced, feeling suddenly pleased with herself. Like maybe her perseverance wasn’t as futile as she’d thought.

And now he was smiling at her for real. And she was smiling back. Their eyes locked. And it was a warm, meaningful moment . . . but it only lasted the one moment.

Because right on the heels of the smile came a wave of sudden sorrow into Harry’s face.

Ginny knew what had happened. He’d been momentarily distracted–for a minute, he had forgotten everything–but then it had all come flooding back, more painful because briefly forgotten.

He looked away from her, and Ginny thought she’d lost him again. But then he said in a low voice, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “It seems impossible for him to be here one day and then the next day gone. How does it even happen that way?”

Ginny sighed. “That’s how it always happens.” How else could it happen? Everything took just a day to happen.

Harry kind of slumped forward. “Everything’s different now.”

Ginny had always had strange impulses and compulsions–often when most inconvenient or inappropriate–and this time was no different. She should have just been a comforting shoulder for Harry, but she found herself needling him again. “Not everything is different. Sirius is just gone.”

He shot an icy glare in her direction.

Holding up her hands as if in defense, she continued quickly, “I know how much he meant to you. I know it must be devastating. But the fact that he’s gone is the only thing that has really changed. Everything isn’t different now.”

She couldn’t believe she’d said that. Even she knew better than to be so thoughtless and unsympathetic. She wouldn’t have blamed Harry if he had stormed off or started screaming at her. But he didn’t. In fact, at her words, Harry’s face looked suddenly burdened, suddenly helpless.

“Isn’t it?” she asked quietly, surprised by this unpredictable reaction. “Has anything else changed too?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“Harry,” she insisted. “Is there anything you haven’t told us? What else is there?”

“Nothing,” he muttered.

He was lying. There was no question about it.

So she thought quickly. Rapidly putting together all the pieces she knew until she landed on the piece that was missing. “The prophecy,” she breathed, in a flash of instinctive knowledge. “Did you hear that prophecy after all?”

That was it. She saw his expression. Knew that she had guessed correctly.

Harry’s face was so torn, so anguished for just a moment. As if a weight too heavy had somehow landed on his hunched shoulders.

Ginny felt a rush of tenderness that was totally unexpected. She wanted to comfort him. Reach out to him. Touch him. Wanted to take him in her arms. She knew what that meant. Knew all of the implications. But couldn’t dwell on it. Not now. Something more important was happening here.

“It was destroyed,” Harry claimed at last, struggling to make his face normal, but failing miserably. “It was too loud to hear anything of the prophecy. Ask Neville.”

That might be true. But Harry somehow knew what the prophecy was anyway. “You know,” she said clearly, her voice firm and unwavering.

Harry shook his head slowly. “Ginny, don’t.” And even she could recognize and react to the edge of warning in his voice.

She sighed. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said at last. “But you aren’t the only one who has suffered. Sometimes it helps to share things with people who might understand.” She met his eyes deeply. “You’ve been chosen in an unusual way, but you’re not alone.”

Harry got up. Turned his back to her.

Well, she had blown it. She’d gone too far. Said too much. Presumed too much on his patience and tolerance.

What did she know about anything anyway? She was just Ginny Weasley. And he was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

And they would always be worlds apart.

Harry took a step away from her, then suddenly turned back to look down at her.

She glanced away, feeling small and embarrassed and insignificant–not characteristic emotions for her.

“Ginny,” Harry said, forcing her attention back to his face.

Their eyes met across the distance. Harry held out his hand.

She took it. Squeezed his warm fingers. Tried not to worry about how deep and tender her heart suddenly felt.

“Thanks,” Harry said simply. Dropped her hand after a long moment and walked slowly away from her.

Ginny watched him go. Watched him until he was completely out of sight.

Then she smiled.

Nothing had happened. Nothing truly earth-shattering or life-changing.

But maybe the day wasn’t so bad after all.


THE END
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