Author's note: Please note that I wrote this between Midnight and 2AM. I haven't been able to write anything, and well, it seems that I needed to get something out. I warn you this story is probably neither cohesive, and it wasn't a pre-planned idea. But it's Ginny and Harry, and hopefully it's diverting a relatively romantic.

"The same black line that was drawn on you, was drawn on me."

They kept people wondering, that was for sure. Were they together? Friends? Lovers? Indifferent acquaintances? Every account of their various meetings in public spoke to one of these conjectures. They would be pictured together with the rest of the Weasley family, out to dinner or some memorial service. Of course they would be seen no where near each other. Noted to not have even have spoken during the entirety of the event.

So it was over. . . What ever they'd had had ended with the Second Wizarding War.


You're lucky, you young witches who daydream that one day you might have your chance with him.

The Chosen One. The dark and brooding Boy Who Lived. Who turned out to be a rather handsome young man. With his dark hair, haunted green eyes, hands (and Merlin, those shoulders) that seemed ready for anything.

And then there's Ginny Weasley. Every wizard's (young and old alike) teenage fantasy. The pretty little ball of fire who could have you drooling and begging for more, all the while whipping you at Quidditch. Never mind that her promotional Holyhead Harpies poster was the quickest selling of the season. It was her sharp wit that had the blokes coming back for more.

Surely, she wasn't taken. Their public appearances were too sparse to actually be something substantial.

Accept they were too frequent to discount completely.


Like the article about Ginny leaving a match with the tall, bespectacled boy. Their hands clasped together, and her hood up, failing to hide her flaming red hair from the prying eyes of the press.

And there was those series of photos of the pair sitting opposite each other in a secluded booth, at The Leaky Cauldron late one night. (And I mean late).

Don't forget there was that gossip column in Witch Weekly, dishing that the Golden Boy had become rather reckless after the Last Battle. Seen drinking and flirting his way around London (we've all heard the rumors), and even more curiously that he'd only ever been seen leaving one of these drunken nights with a certain and very particular red-haired Quidditch star.

"It was so romantic!" exclaimed a witch, who had been at the Purple Galleon during one of their few paired appearances. "They didn't come together, that was for sure. But once he'd noticed she was there, he couldn't stop looking at her. There were a few guys trying to chat with her, because I mean please, she's bloody gorgeous. That was when he went to her. He leaned into say something, and you could tell she was surprised, but she turned right to him. Completely ignoring the other blokes. And the way they looked at each other! It was so intense, like there was no one else in the place. It was like he was her guard, standing so close to her, but not touching. She said something to him. I don't know what, but it seemed to really get to him. His jaw did that lovely tightening thing, and he only nodded in response. After a minute of this quiet exchange, Harry put a hand on her back and they left the pub. Together. Swoon!"

You heard it, straight from the slightly inebriated, overly hormonal's horse's mouth. An eye witness account.


There were pictures from that night too. Harry with his ever disheveled hair, escorting the young Weasley girl out of the popular Magical Night Club, and onto the streets of London. Surely you've seen them? They were everywhere.

You know the ones. Ginny Weasley in that iconic black dress (the dress that every witch now has some knock off in her closet), with that tense, but faraway look in her eyes, and Harry, and his perpetual sex hair (yes, the style all the wizard's are trying to sport these days), and his vigilant green eyes, looking back over his shoulder, as the camera captures his perfectly square jaw flexed with tension. His arm wrapped protectively around her waist. His fingers playing delicately along her infamous scar that graces her exposed shoulder blade.

Is it fair that any one person be that beautiful, let alone two tragic war heroes?


That should be enough. Proof that they were indeed Harry and Ginny. But then there would be months of radio silence. Not a single picture of the two anywhere near each other. There were rumors of Harry seen with pretty witches at this event or that. There was a long running rumor that Ginny was currently seeing the heir of a French shipping mogul. A handsome playboy that she'd met through her sister-in-law the beautiful veela, Fleur Weasley nee Delacour. Pictures were splashed on magazines, just nothing substantial.

Of course there were pictures of Harry and Ginny in there too. On opposite ends of tables filled with old Hogwarts alumni.

"They were friendly, I guess?" answered a waiter, who served the large party, when questioned.

You could see them playing in a charity quidditch scrimmage to benefit families who lost loved one's during the Second Wizarding War. They'd even posed for a picture together. . . along with Ron, Hermione, George, and Oliver Wood.


And just when we'd given up hope, because you know that we'd been secretly rooting for them all along, (because, come on, who else are that perfect for each other?), they're spotted. Actually seen in the flesh. From a seat of a bar stool their seen. Harry'd been there at the pub for a while. He was the life of the party. Toasts, shots, and pretty girls flashing him their easiest smiles.

And then there she was. She looked unbelievably beautiful. It was pointless to be jealous. The witches who notice her just jot notes of how they can copy her look. Which was flawless, somehow. A white sheath night gown, with her trench coat hanging open, like she just shrugged it on. Which maybe she did, because her hair was a gorgeous mess, that definitely could be described as bed ragged, and her shoes; a bold risk. Wellies.

Did she just roll out of bed?

Harry seemed transfixed. (To be fair, so was every other male in the pub).


Ginny stood in the middle of the loud pub, watching tiredly as Harry wasted another night, doing his best to drown out the demons in his head. She'd been woken to the sound of Ron's voice from her fireplace.

"Harry's down at Cauldron's Bottom," he'd told her. "Can you go check on him? We had a rough day at the office."

"Of course," she answered on a wearied yawn. Of course she would.

Throwing on her closest coat and slipping into the only shoes she had by her door, Ginny headed out into the late night for Harry.

Now as she stood there watching as the dark-haired man laughed with perfect strangers, and shared heated looks with busty witches, she wondered why she even made the effort.

But that was when he looked at her. Merlin, could he look at her. Like he could see into her soul. His eyes always searched. It always felt intimate somehow as he perused her face. Like he could see something that other's couldn't.

"Hi," she mouthed. She was exhausted, and she hadn't taken time to glamour over the dark circles that had begun to frequent the half-moons below her amber brown eyes. She noticed that Harry was sporting similar evidence of lack of sleep.

She swore she saw him soften for a moment. The mask he seemed to wear, slip only for a second.

Ginny watched as he set his whiskey glass back on the bar, and made his way toward her. His eyes never leaving hers. It never failed to make her heart rate pick up. When he came at her like this. When he looked at her like this. Like she was his.

Ginny's eyes moved to the exit for a moment.

By the time she looked back, he was in front of her. Always stopping just centimeters from her. Invading her space. Invading her mind.

"Who sent you this time?" asked the dark-haired man in front of her. Ducking down just a bit to speak into her ear, in order to be heard over the noise of the pub.

But the remark wasn't biting. It was almost apologetic.

With a sigh, she looked up at Harry. "Ron," she explained. He replied with an annoyed, but understanding nod.

They stood quietly for a moment. Each seeming to be bracing themselves for whatever the other might say next. Harry was eyeing her with a somewhat appraising look, and Ginny suddenly felt rather conscious that she had not taken more time to glamour her tired features, and cover up her angled body. Which showed evidence of her sleepless nights, and the fact that she hadn't been eating much.

She didn't notice his hand reach ever so slightly towards her wrist, before instead bringing it up to run it over the back of his neck.

He looked wrought and ragged. He had stubble ghosting over his cheeks, and his eyes were a bit haunted. She opened her mouth to scold him. For not taking care of himself, for being so careless when so many people cared about him, but watching him run a hand through his dark hair (which he only did when he was really on edge) she decided on a gentle, "Let's go?"

"Yeah, Gin," Harry agreed on a wearied exhale.

She brought him back to her apartment. She was far too tired to apparate them all the way to Grimmauld Place. And frankly she'd only worry about him all night, if she left hime alone to his own devices. He could just sleep it off on her sofa. It wouldn't be the first time. She led him into the dark living room. Retrieving her wand from her coat pocket to transfigure the sofa into a comfy bed and to light a small fire in the hearth.

Ginny did her best to ignore his keen gaze, as she gathered a few extra blankets for the magicked bed. The air in the room gathering a a stifling intensity without a word.


"Get some rest, Harry," she stopped him, a forced smile on her pink lips. Before anything more could be said, she turned towards her bedroom. Hoping that they could both ignore the fact that the last time he'd stayed at her apartment, he did not sleep on her sofa. But that was some time ago, and she'd promised herself that that something would never happen again.

"Do you love him?"

Ginny found her path out of the living room halted by his hushed question. With those four words, her chest tightened and her breath came unsteady. She couldn't move forward, but she couldn't turn around. She couldn't. So she stayed with her back to him. "Harry. . ." she warned tightly.

"Do you?" he pressed, his voice firm.


A shaky exhale filled the quiet of the room, accompanied by a few crackles of the glowing fire.

"Has he touched you?" he asked, but his voice was not as firm with this question. Rather it was careful, carnal. He was much closer this time. She could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck. It shot a shiver down her spine, causing her back to arch ever so slightly, and her bare toes to curl into the carpet.

"Harry we shouldn't. . ." the rest of her sentence was lost to the world, as she felt his large hand come to grasp her hip, pulling her back into his strong chest.

"Tell me he never touched you."

Ginny was losing it, her body was reacting to his on it's own accord. Her hips writhing ever so slightly against his. Her neck arching to allow him access. "I couldn't," she whimpered, as his nose skimmed her neck and now exposed shoulder. "never. . ."

That was a moan.

"Ginny," he worshipped, as his hands moved up and down her sides, the thin material of her night gown moving with her. Ginny tried to fight against the pull he had on her, but she found herself only letting herself slip further. They were drawn together.

"What do you want from me, Harry?" she asked frenzied. Now, completely leaning back into him, as his mouth and hands removed all coherent thought from her mind.

"You know exactly what I want," he whispered thickly, his fingers playing with the fourth finger of her left hand. Ginny's breath hitched as they broached the subject that had put them in this odd standoff for months now.

"Don't," she told him, but instead of sounding forceful, it was breathy and wanting.

"No," he answered with the force she'd meant to use. "Tell me you're mine," he demanded, as his hands slid into her knickers. She whimpered, her legs shakily parting, welcoming his calloused fingers.

Merlin, how she'd missed his. His possession. She was wanton, writhing against his hand. She couldn't lie to herself. Shaking her head, not wanting to admit it aloud, she finally conceded. "Of course I am," she gave, trying to fight against the emotions and overwhelming pleasure he was pulling from her.

They were too young. How could he know that he wanted her forever?

"You're all I see," he murmured against her flushed skin, as his fingers worked her thoroughly. She would have doubled over from pleasure, if he hadn't been holding her lithe form against him.

"Harry, please," she begged as his words cut through her, but she didn't quite know what she was begging for.

"I can't stay away anymore," he told her, turning her in his arms, removing his drenched fingers, causing her heavy lidded eyes to meet his. There were tears at the edges. Seeing her struggle, Harry dropped his forehead to hers.

"Tell me you feel it too," he begged, his green eyes watching as she warred with herself.

"Of course I do," she admitted angrily, as she fought back her tears.

Harry's grip on her tightened at her admission, he let out a shaky breath, "Then let me have you."

"Stop saying things like that," she whispered desperately, trying to pull out of Harry's strong arms.

"I won't," he argued, holding her still against her struggle, "We're not too young. It won't work, trying to forget you. No matter how much you say it. I know you're scared, but I won't let you push me away again," he finished earnestly, and he took her chin and pulled her lips to his. For the first time in months he kissed her. Hard and thorough. His tongue licked and explored her hot mouth. He swallowed the moan that he'd coaxed from her.

She pulled away breathing hard. Immediately hiding her face in the crook of his neck, unable to bear much more of his onslaught.

His arms came up to cradle her slight form. The words he'd been biting back for too long coming out in a litany. "I love you," he whispered against her red hair. Ginny shook her head against his shoulder. "I love you. I love you. I love you. . ." he repeated over and over.

Then she was kissing him. Her hand was tangled in his dark hair, and her lips were sliding over his. "Say it again," she demanded between furious, desperate kisses.

"I love you, Ginny," he complied easily. "I've never stopped."

She whimpered against his mouth, and then she was fully in his arms. Her legs wrapped around his waist. "Harry," she gasped as he placed hot open mouth against her shoulders. She was beneath him in an instant. His strong body over hers, as she lay on the sofa bed. Her hands grasped and pulled at him, alive with contact.

His hands were trailing the white gown up her thighs, as his lips moved from her mouth to just below here ear. "I love you," she confessed against the demands of his mouth on her skin.

She could feel him shudder. Once the words escaped her mouth, his arms tightened around her, and his teeth bit down to leave a temporary mark on her skin. He stilled against her. Ginny's breath was ragged and irregular, as a gripping fear over came her, and tears returned to her eyes. Not for what she wasn't sure of, but of what she was.

Harry pulled back to look at her. His eyes intense, apprehensive even, and his jaw, tense. "Say it again." His voice husky and thick.

Ginny could barely stand the weight of his gaze. It was too much. He was too much. Harry was going to consume her whole. A lone tear escaped down her cheek. What was more frightening was that she didn't care at all.

"I love you, Harry."

"Ginny, I. . ." he breathed out, his eyes holding a question. He shuddered not able to finish. She could feel his body shaking. His green eyes teemed with intensity and something else she couldn't quite place. She watched as he reached into his trouser pocket. Another gasp escaped her lips when he pulled out the diamond ring.

"Harry," she breathed, as tears began to escape freely down her cheeks.

"I've carried it with me ever since. I couldn't put it back. It belongs on your finger or nowhere," he told her earnestly. "Marry me. Please, just be mine."

As she reached for him, she found that she was shaking as well. "Yes, Harry."

And he was kissing her again. His mouth worshiping her. His tears mingling with their mouths, and tongues. They lost themselves in each other that night. She watched as he slid the ring down on her finger, before lacing their hands together. They would be a family.

All speculation of their relationship was put to rest the next day, when Ginny flashed her ring as she was barraged with questions about her relationship with one, Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived, who was with her, never looked so alive.


Author's Note: That's what insomnia and writer's block gets you. Something very strange. I see it as a zoomed out look on Harry and Ginny's relationship, and then a nice zoomed in part as well. I am a little obsessed with the idea of the media playing a small role in their relationship. (You see this is mechanism is used in a number of my other stories). Perhaps, because I have gushed over celebrity couples myself, rooting for them in their beauty. It probably reads terribly.

I you're here to scold me on my absence from Whatever Souls Are Made Of (which you have every right to do, I've been a bad girl), you must at least say a thing or two about this one first. :)