life, liberty and the pursuit of geekiness

(A/N: It’s H and G’s first night together, and Harry, as usual, has someone out to kill him.)

Ginny lay wide-eyed, staring into the darkness. She was too keyed up and had too much to think of to sleep yet, though Harry's even breathing beside her told her that he, at least, was dead to the world. His lovemaking had been tender and eager and intensely satisfying, emotionally as well as physically. At least so she supposed, for this quivering thrill somewhere beneath her breastbone must be happiness.

"He loves me. Harry loves me," she whispered experimentally, and then, "I love Harry." She had loved him for years, of course, in the careless, offhand way of old friends—except that with Harry, you could never take anything for granted, not when he was in such constant danger. But this new love, that she had never known anything like before…What she felt, Ginny realised, was not so much happiness as the removal of some old hurt she had carried so long that she had forgotten what it was to be without it, and the discovery of something she had been searching for all her life. Surely it was not possible to be suffering from the effects of a first crush, the first rejection she had ever known, half a lifetime later!

She could not remember a time when she had not known the name of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. When Ron had made friends with him, it had seemed unreal, as though one had seen Merlin. Ginny had been wild with longing to met him. And then he had come to the Burrow during her eleventh summer—and had been an ordinary little boy, very like Ron, except that he was small and skinny, and wore baggy clothes and glasses held together with tape, and had a shy smile, impossibly adorable green eyes and hair that made you want to mother him. Ginny had been lost. In the normal course of events, her crush would have probably burnt itself out harmlessly enough—but the Chamber of Secrets episode at the end of her first year had saddled her with a crushing inferiority complex and a furious resentment towards Harry—for saving her life and never speaking to her, for taking no heed of her existence when she loved him with all the passion of a hopeless calf-love. But in her last few years at Hogwarts, they had somehow become friends, and then good friends, and her crush had slowly faded away.

And then, the impossible had happened—Harry had fallen in love with her. She remembered Ron and Hermione’s wedding, how he had looked at her with naked love and longing in his eyes, and how frightened she had been. She had held out for a long time, because she had known that if she gave way to Harry, it would be suddenly and totally. And in the event, she had, and here they were.

Ginny reached for her wand. “Lumos,” she whispered. Leaning on her elbow, she watched Harry’s sleeping face, seeing his face, the features more familiar than her own, as if for the first time. He looked very unguarded in sleep, very open, and his tousled hair and long lashes made him look about fifteen. Ginny felt a sudden immense surge of tenderness for him. It was frightening, to love someone so much; to have let him, not only into her bed, but into her trust and her heart as she had let no other man. But Harry, she knew, needed her as much as she needed him.

“Nox,” she murmured, reaching for Harry, wanting the reassurance of his touch. She cradled his head against her breast, holding him close. He half-woke and put an arm round her, murmuring something incoherent. It sounded like, “Love you.”
Ginny smiled, feeling a quick burst of optimism. All would be well; Harry’s danger would pass as it had so often before; they would be happy together—but for tonight, it was enough that they slept in each other’s arms.