A/N: This is the result of 3 prompts, 2 were asked for and one is my fault lol. I actually think I really like this one but tell me what you all think! It's a little unusual for me in some ways :)
Slimy. He feels slimy. And cold.
Plus his nose itches.
Assuming the last complaint will be the easiest to remedy, he lifts his arm to scratch said nose only to be confronted with a face full of tentacle. Slimy, cold tentacle. At least that explains things.
Last he remembers he didn't have tentacles, but to be fair he doesn't remember much other than at some point in the past he wasn't slimy and cold.
His rather pointless internal monologue grinds to a halt when an airy voice calls out from his bedside. "He's awake. I think. I made sure the Wrackspurts are taken care of – quite a detriment to the healing process."
Another woman's voice, familiar if unidentified at the moment, sounds tight but loving, close to his head. "Oh Harry, I can't leave you alone for a day." Harry?
The airy voice again, "I have to say the fault likely rests with me."
Before the second woman can respond again, and he – Harry apparently – really wants her to for whatever reason, but there's lots of talking all at once and his stiff bed is being jostled from the room with too many voices to count let alone understand. The gauzy fabric over his eyes is frustrating enough but made worse when the second voice, the loving one cuts through the din desperately, "Just be ok Harry. Please," and Harry can't see her, let alone answer beyond tilting his head in what he thinks is her direction.
He thinks she says she loves him but air whooshes by – likely the broad doors that separate treatment rooms from the general population – and he can't be sure.
It feels like ages and no time at all when he wakes again, eyes still covered, but only with a cool flannel instead of stifling gauze. The scratchy blanket and sheets are tucked around him so tightly he can't tell if the tentacles are still there. This thought gives him pause – maybe he's meant to have tentacles.
He doesn't have much time to entertain the thought because the flannel is removed and he's blinking away the bright light, faced with a tense, freckled face framed by fiery red locks, mussed and slipping from her ponytail. She worries her lip, "Do you know who you are?"
Harry frowns, "I don't know what I am."
"They got rid of the tentacles. Luckily. I don't know if I'd be able to – anyway you're all human again," she smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes, those brown eyes he just wants to fall into. Hopefully lucid and non-forgetful Harry has some game and he can figure out how to ask her on a date because this woman is downright fanciable.
"And I'm Harry?"
She looks happy for a moment, until he ends on the questioning note. Sighing, she nods and grasps his hand – scarred from what he can see. Must be a badass bloke, then. "They told me it's best for you to remember naturally. But I've lost the ability to wait around for you Harry James."
He's worried, until he catches her teasing tone and his chest thumps at the idea that she ever had something to wait for, that she apparently wasn't waiting anymore, and that she's holding his hand. Giving himself a mental shake, he feels a smile slip onto his face as he tilts his head toward her, frowning at the blurriness of her, wondering if this is a side effect until a knowing expression spills over her features and he feels cold spectacles fall into the cradle of his ears.
Squeezing her hand, he feels the band of a ring around her finger and his heart drops into his stomach. This is either better than he imagined, or he's forgotten his biggest heartbreak and has to learn the pain all over again. Harry steels himself and lets his gaze drop to the blanket. "You're married?"
A grin grows on her face and he doesn't think he's imagining the mischievous glint in her eyes when she answers, "Perceptive one, eh? Just engaged."
Part of him is glad that maybe he hasn't missed his chance. But then he feels like a tosser for waking up from a memory loss-inducing accident and his first thoughts are plotting to break up someone's engagement. And yet he can't fully put a damper on the flame that's ignited. "He big and scary then? Do I measure up?"
Her brow quirks, mouth twisted in a wry smile. "He's very macho. You're pretty close I suppose. Shockingly you're much smoother than he is."
Cursing the blush he feels rising on his cheeks, Harry fiddles with his glasses as he asks, "Is it working enough that I get your name?"
"You know it already."
"I guessed so," Harry answers, disappointed.
Gaze turning soft, her hand leaves his to stroke his hair away from his face. "The healer says your memories should be coming back soon enough."
He's trying to listen, he really is, but something they gave him must have made his attention span shorter, because he watches her mouth form the word healer and suddenly all he can think about is the freckle just about at the peak of her lip, that one that bleeds over from her pale skin into the pink of her lips. And then he finds himself speaking before he can stop it, "You have such a pretty little mouth."
Apparently, she's been talking this whole time, because at his statement she stutters to a halt. "I – you know its rare for you to get me speechless now. But you've done it Harry dear."
Heart pounding again, his voice rises hopefully, "Dear?"
Ginny gives him a watery smile, "Yes. Dear."
She looks like she's going to say something, and he's starving for more information about his life – maybe their life – when the healer comes in again and Harry hopes the woman isn't offended by the snarl and possible growl he looses when Ginny is directed from the room.
Sadly, Ginny complies, squeezing Harry's hand affectionately, so affectionately and with such sadness in her eyes that he's fighting them and the sludge he just knows will put him to sleep. He's upended the cart and almost sent one of the nurses sprawling – he's not proud but the man is nearly big as Hagrid so actually yeah he's a little proud – when Ginny comes back to his bedside, jean jacket tucked over her arm. "It's alright love, I'll come back soon."
Harry's fingers swipe across her cheek and come away damp, and there's some thought lingering at the back of his mind telling him that's not usual, which is confirmed when she frowns and swipes the remaining tears from her face with an eye roll. "Turned me into a hosepipe again, Harry James. You'd better hope this doesn't leak to Puddlemere. Terrible trash talkers, the lot."
Then it comes back in ribbons, and Harry feels like he's watching his life projected on a screen, his life with Ginny. It's all out of order, and in bits that would be nonsense to anyone but him – bright red hair like a pennant against the clouds, freckled cheeks glowing with embarrassment, blazing eyes set only on him, and a tear streaked dusty face, rivulets cutting pathways down and revealing freckles like a forgotten mystery. And even though he didn't tell her for months after, Harry knows that's when he realized it actually was love and he could never let her go.
The memories stutter to a halt and he can't imagine ever being without them now. Slowly, he becomes conscious of the real world again, his death grip on Ginny's hand, her tense expression, hovering healers – everyone surrounding his bed and looking at him like he's a zoo animal. Harry smirks, thanks amigo.
Ginny's brow is pressed against his when Luna's airy voice cuts over the din of healers and nurses, "I suppose it's too much to ask that next time you'll listen to the person who created the magical emergency and let the patient be prompted?"
Their lips finally meet and it's better than firewhisky, warm and pooling in his chest when Ginny pulls away, breath still brushing across his cheek. "No more being Luna's test subject, yeah?"