He's staring at me again. It seems like he always is, anymore. I laugh at something Hermione says, and toss my hair over my shoulder, pretending not to notice. He likes that. It's a game we played a lot at Hogwarts- we'd pretend that we didn't know each other, and have an "anonymous" meeting in the common room later that night. I always liked that game.
Finally, briefly, I glance across the room and look at him. He's talking to Fred and George, probably about their shop. He loves hearing about their shop. He looks at me again, and our eyes meet like they always do.
Nevertheless, tonight, the game is different.
Ever since Professor Dumbledore's funeral, when he told me we couldn't be together, I've thought of him constantly. He's here for a week now, for Fleur and Bill's wedding. It's tomorrow, but I can't bring myself to care. All that matters is that he's looking at me again, and, perhaps, the rules of the game are being changed back.
Slowly, casually, I twirl a piece of hair around my finger, and turn my head back toward Hermione. I drop my eyes, then tilt them back up, biting my lip. He likes that. I see his eyes move from my finger to sweep over my collarbone before settling on my mouth.
A flash of a memory- the common room again, but later, on his favorite chair right in front of the fire. I bite my lip harder and cross my legs, looking away quickly. We've barely spoken since he arrived here, but I'm hoping against hope that we can recreate that memory, elaborate on it, just once before he goes.
I know that they're going. Hermione told me the minimum: they have a mission Professor Dumbledore gave them, and Harry never told me because Dumbledore asked him not too. Hermione was worried that this would make me mad at him. It didn't. If anything, it made me love this sad, noble man even more.
Slowly, the room empties out until it's just Harry talking to George on the other side of the room. I pick a book at random and curl up in the chair to wait until George leaves. A smirk crosses my face as I realize that I've picked up one of Mum's romance novels. They've been a joke between Harry and I since Christmas of last year. That was before we were together, but it had still been wonderful sharing something, anything, with him.
Finally, George leaves, Harry simply saying that he doesn't quite feel like going to bed yet. George doesn't know we dated. I think Hermione made Ron promise not to tell any of his brothers. I was planning on telling mum in person, but the opportunity never came up.
Harry crosses the room to the couch and takes Hermione's place. The cushions sink in, and even that tiny motion makes me suck in a breath. I readjust my position on the couch so I am facing him. I bend my shoulder just so, and the strap of my sundress slides down around my arm. He likes that. I drop the book on the ground, and swallow hard.
He looks at me, but this time, he looks through me. I hear myself gasp aloud. He's wearing that hard, blazing look that he wore the first time we kissed, and I feel heat rock through me. I wonder again at his ability to do that to me with just a look.
"Ginny-" he croaks. I swallow. He's breathing just as hard as I am. "Ginny, I miss you so- it's not safe, I can't be with you, but I need-" I pull him toward me.
And then we're kissing, and it doesn't matter anymore.
Hands touch, eyes meet. We rediscover each other, I'm burning up, he's pressing me into the couch, and I lose all ability to think.
Hours later, or so it seems, we're curled up in front of the fire, just holding each other. Occasionally, he drops a kiss on my forehead, and our hands remain laced together.
It is I who breaks the silence for the first time, softly. "I'll wait for you, you know." He shifts onto his elbow and looks at me, eyes dark and glittering. "I know you're not asking me to, but I need you, Harry, I always have."
He doesn't answer out loud, but pulls me against him tighter and buries his face into my shoulder. An unsaid thank you. I turn and wrap my arms around his neck, and drape a leg over his hip. He curls into me.
It's just a moment, I realize. But I memorize every inch of him, every bit of what I'm feeling right now. Good doesn't always triumph over evil. The hero doesn't always come back alive. I start to shake, and breathe him in. He holds me even tighter.