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The juxtaposition was not lost on Harry; the sun shining brightly on the battered grounds of Hogwarts as he sits on the grass under a tree, hoping for another few moments of peace before someone comes to find him. He can feel the sun on his legs, warming his jeans and soothing him into a peace he hasn’t felt in close to a year.
He’s beginning to give into the calm when he hears footsteps approaching, and his hand tightens on his wand at his side. It’s a reflex he supposes he’ll have for years to come. But his grip loosens as he looks up and see it’s Ginny, walking towards where he sits, a plate in her hands. He hasn’t seen her since right after Voldemort fell, and she’d been one of the first people to his side, hugging him in exultation.
She says nothing as she walks around the tree and sits next to him. After she settles, she hands him the plate, ignoring how he stiffens as it slides onto his lap. It’s filled with an assortment of food, looking straight from the Hogwarts kitchens, and he feels his chest tug at the familiarity.
He looks at her to find she’s staring out across the grounds, her eyes half closed as she relaxes against the tree. He takes in her appearance, the dirt covering her pants and hands, and the dried blood on her shirtsleeve. She lets out a shuddering breath, and he sees her lip tremble. She shakes herself before looking at him.
“Eat. It helps,” she says quietly, reaching over to take a piece of bread off the plate. He looks down and stares at the food for longer than necessary before picking up a piece of fruit.
(…)
The next couple of days pass in a blur, and he’s never been happier to hear they’re returning to the Burrow. Their last day at Hogwarts is the mass memorial though, and Harry wakes up that morning with a sense of dread weighing him down. He tells Ron to go ahead as he dresses, putting on the dress robes that Arthur Weasley secured for him. Harry sighs as Ron finally leaves the dorm, and he sits down on his bed, his hands beginning to shake as he stares at the robes.
Fred’s funeral is the following day, and he knows he has to make plans for Remus, and he’ll be invited to every other small funeral there will be, and the thought of attending funeral after funeral makes his vision swim.
He’s attempting to fix his collar when the door opens, and he doesn’t have to look to know who it is. In the past few days, she always finds him, and they coexist in an almost silent understanding. She’s wearing a black dress, her hair is loose around her shoulders, and his mouth goes dry.
She walks over and bats his hands away gently, fixing the collar for him. He watches her in the mirror as she reaches around and fixes his top button, and then she moves in front of him, her fingers already fixing the tie he’s been trying to tie for ten minutes. He can see she’s already been crying. He reaches out and places a hand gently on her waist.
“You’re not mad.”
The words escape his mouth before he has a chance to swallow them, and her hands still at his neck. She smoothes her hands over his shoulders, flicking off imaginary lint, as she absorbs what he’s said. She looks up at him, her hands still resting on his shoulders, and her eyes look darker than usual.
She shakes her head, and her shoulders sag as she leans her head against his chest. He wraps an arm around her waist, pulls her close, and she slips her arms around his torso to hold him tight. The smell of her hair fills his nostrils and his chest feels warm.
When they walk downstairs some time later, no one questions their clasped hands, or the tear tracks on Ginny’s cheeks.
(…)
At Fred’s funeral the next day, he tries to blend into the background, stay away from the grieving family. But Ginny finds him, standing at the back of the chairs set up in the field near the Burrow, takes his hand, and pulls him to the front to sit next to her. Hermione is on his other side, her head resting on Ron’s shoulder in silent comfort.
Harry never wants to see his best friends cry this much again.
Only a few people stand to speak, as only a few can pull themselves together long enough to do so. Harry declines, his guilt overwhelming all other feelings he has, as the family that’s always loved him cries around him. He wants to leave as soon as it’s over, but Ginny doesn’t let go of his hand, and he’s slightly afraid of what she’d do if he left.
As people begin to stand and talk, many heading for the food table Molly had dutifully set up, Harry looks at Ginny for the first time since they’d sat down. Her face is blotchy red, much like Ron’s, and she’s biting her lip. Harry squeezes her hand, and she squeezes it back as she turns to look at him. There’s a piece of hair stuck to her wet cheek, and Harry reaches over on instinct to push it back behind her ear.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, thankful for the low chatter allowing them to have a private moment within the crowd. She shakes her head, her mouth opening as she tries to swallow the lump in her throat that’s preventing her from speaking.
“Not… your fault,” she croaks, and Harry looks down at their entwined hands, at the contrast of their skin, and sighs. She reaches up and touches his cheek, and he leans into her touch until his head is on her shoulder, and there’s tears soaking her dress. He doesn’t see Ron and Hermione, hovering nearby, come over and block him from view as he cries against Ginny’s shoulder.
(…)
Grief paints itself in mysterious ways, and Harry’s asleep in her bed when the argument occurs, voices rising in misplaced anger. The house is filled with food, but there’s more food cooking, and as Molly removes a roast from the oven, she turns on her husband.
“They haven’t said more than three words to each other! It’s bloody maddening, Arthur!”
“Leave them be, Molly. They’ll work things out on their own.”
Ginny hears this, as she lays awake next to Harry, her face pressed against his shoulder. He’s been asleep for hours, exhaustion catching up to him quickly, enough that even the nightmares don’t come. It wasn’t intentional, him falling asleep in her bed, but it’s not something she’s protesting.
He jerks as he wakes, and she watches as his hand grips his wand, which is under his pillow. She wonders how long it’ll be before that habit is broken, and he can sleep without it nearby. He turns over and squints at her, and she reaches for his glasses and hands them to him with a smile. Nodding in appreciation, he rolls onto his back and slips an arm under her shoulders. She takes the invitation and curls up against his side, smiling as he covers her hand on his chest with his own.
“I missed you,” he whispers against her hair, and she feels the beginnings of a smile on her face. She turns her face enough to press a kiss to his collarbone, and she feels his grip tighten on her hand.
“I missed you,” she replies, and she feels him kiss the top of her head.
(…)
It’s nearly June when he finds her sitting on the back steps, watching the sun set on the horizon. Out in the garden, Molly is sitting amongst the vegetables, her hat pulled low over her brow as she weeds. Ron and Hermione are somewhere out near the pond and, up in the sky, George, Bill, and Charlie are flying as fast as their old brooms can take them.
He sits down next to her and takes her hand, an act that comes natural to him at this point. Ginny offers him a smile.
“Mum asked me why we don’t talk.”
It’s the longest sentence she’s said to him in a long time, and it catches him off guard. He looks at her as she sighs.
“I told her I’m not sure why,” she continues, and he shrugs.
“There’s not much to say,” he says, and she purses her lips.
“But isn’t there?” she turns to face him, and he swallows thickly.
“I’m tired of talking,” he says, honestly, and she nods, because she gets it. He’s been explaining for weeks, every day to someone new, about how it all ended.
“I don’t care about how you took down Voldemort,” she says softly, leaning her chin on his shoulder. “I care about you, and how you’re feeling.”
He turns his head so her nose is pressed against his cheek, and she can feel his jaw tighten as he thinks.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, and she sits back up, shaking her head.
“No, don’t apologize. You have nothing to feel sorry about,” she states firmly as she squeezes his hand. He looks down at his lap, and she rests her chin on his shoulder again.
“I know how much talking can help,” she whispers after he’s quiet for some time, and he looks at her out of the corner of his eye to see she’s shut her eyes as she waits.
“I know,” he says, and she opens her eyes to look at him.
“It doesn’t have to be now, but whenever you’re ready, I’m here to listen. I promise,” she says, and he nods, pushing back the tears threatening to spill over his eyes. He reaches up and presses on his eyelids. He feels her kiss his jaw.
“And I’m here for you, too,” he says against the lump in his throat, looking at her in time to see her smile. She scoots closer to him, lifting her chin off his shoulder as she does. Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he relaxes against her, the last of the sun’s rays bathing the area in a warm light. Harry looks down at her as she rests her head on his shoulder, her hair seemingly on fire in the fading light. She catches him looking at her and smiles, the corners meeting her bright eyes.
“I love you,” he whispers, and the smile spreads past her eyes.
“I love you, too,” she replies, and the smile that graces Harry’s face is brighter than any sunset Ginny’s ever seen.