A/N: This story was written for the H/G takingitinturns fanfic exchange on Live Journal. The theme was ‘motion’, and for some reason I had a horrible time zeroing in on an idea until the very last minute—and then this one hit me out of the blue and took hold.
Big thanks to Sherry, Kelly, Bethany and Mary who all took glances at this and beta’d it in their own distinct yet lovely ways. Thank you for all of your input; I could not have done it without you.
The air in her room permeates everything—eerily stagnant, heavy with the dampness of a storm that has not come yet. The curtains hang limp on the thrown-open window, and none of the familiar night sounds drift in to soothe her restlessness, not even a breeze. The coppery scent of ozone seeps in thick through the window—around her, enveloping her—and it’s only a matter of time before a storm comes, all-consuming, drowning them all with life. Tendrils of damp hair cling to Ginny’s neck, sticky with perspiration, as she thrashes about in her bed, and she does not care any more, does not care at all, if she wakes up Hermione.
Untangling her legs from her nightgown for the umpteenth time, Ginny sits up. It’s no use, she can’t possibly sleep. She glances over at Hermione on the camp bed. How did rest come so easily for her? Isn’t Hermione’s mind a race of thoughts like her own? And as if in response, Hermione sighs and turns, sinking further into her nest of pillows and deeper into sleep.
Standing brings a feeling a confidence—a decision made. The floorboards feel smooth and surprisingly cool under Ginny’s feet and they lead her on. Not knowing what she’s going to do, but certain she’s not going to sleep, she pads softly across the room and out the door and into the hall.
The air blankets her even more warmly here, musty and still with sleep. If she listens hard, she can hear the sounds of sleep-even breathing just on the other side of the walls. It must be two in the morning, at least. Involuntarily, her eyes gaze at the stairwell leading up to Ron’s room and she wonders…dares…should she? They haven’t spoken—there’s been no time in the last three days. Harry has barely been around with all of the meetings and funerals, and when he is, there have been no words, only glances.
Meaningful glances…but still…does she dare?
Her step on the stairs falls feather-light and by memory she avoids the treads that creak until she reaches the door. There she pauses, hesitating—nearly retreating—and then after a moment opens it quietly.
Ron sleeps on his stomach. His face smooshed as always, and mouth open on his pillow, snoring, but it isn’t Ron that she wants to see. No, it isn’t him that she needs to see.
Harry’s asleep. His blankets tossed back to reveal a bare chest exposed like a breathing sculpture. Her breath catches as she sees yet another scar—brilliant red, stained in the shape of a circle on his chest. Where did…? How did he…? There’s so little that she knows about what happened when he was away this last year, so much that she longs to understand…a trail of dark hair snakes down his taut stomach and disappears into the waist of his pajamas and he inhales deeply, shifting in his sleep, and Ginny skirts to the shadows, wondering if she has woken him. Not knowing…not knowing…she hates not knowing…should she wake him?
His face stills again in silence, lips slightly parted, and his eyes move rapidly under his lids in deep sleep. She should leave him, let him be, but she can’t. It’s so rare that she can do this—watch him unabashedly, not worrying about the consequences. His dark eyelashes lie thick against his pale cheeks in the moonlight, and his cheekbones seem more pronounced somehow—older, wiser, defined.
He has changed.
A slight breeze stirs through the open window and with it comes a familiar soothing. A scent so rooted—so deep in her being—that it brings an involuntary longing that refuses all reason. It is his scent engrained in her. So familiar, but nearly forgotten, deeply buried in the recesses of her memory. A scent that pushes all thought out of her head and spins her world.
With a light whoosh, she is beside him now, certain of what she wants. She is as close as she can be without waking him. Her gaze flickers over his face, drinking him in. She wants to taste his lips, and the wanting…thewanting…it’s the only thing that exists.
With the barest touch she brings her lips to his. They are warm, light as breath, and as soft as she remembers. His eyes flutter open, taking her in. She debates whether she should stay or retreat, but she remains, frozen not more than two inches from his face.
“Ginny?” he whispers. His eyes now fully open, searching her features, seeming uncertain if she is actually real.
She touches his cheek with her fingertips, nodding. In this instant he comes alive, every muscle in his torso flexing as he moves, sitting, pulling her to him, and holding her tight. She crawls into his lap and melts into him once again, kissing him, meeting his lips with the same pressure, the same heat, the same promise of things to come. At first his fingertips are light on her skin and then gripping, and something awakens in her, something that has been asleep for far too long.
He’s alive…not dead…he’s alive…this mantra plays on repeat in her head, heightening her senses, and pushing all rational thought well out of reach. This…this…is what she wants.
Ron snores loudly and thrashes on his bed, and they both stop, frozen still. Ginny is certain that frantic pounding of her heart is loud enough to be heard, but before she has time to censure it, Harry twists on the bed and they are no longer in Ron’s room. They are someplace different, outside, at night.
Ginny blinks, trying to register what just happened, but only really caring that Harry is still there, with her, his arms around her waist.
The air whips in turbulent motion here. No longer still, no longer oppressive, it spins around them—stirring her hair and her nightdress and she draws Harry closer, needing his warmth. The night clouds race across the sky, obscuring and then revealing the moon’s light in strange racing shadow-shapes and Ginny instinctively burrows her head in his chest. The earth squishes with dampness beneath her toes, and the grass chills the soles of her feet.
“Where are we?”
“Not far—Stoatshead Hill.”
“A storm is coming.”
“Yes,” he replies. There is a pause, and she can feel his Adam’s apple bob in his throat before he speaks. “Would you like to go home?”
And there they stand. Silent, holding each other while the world spins in chaos around them. The tree limbs gyrate in full motion, dipping and swaying, whipping their leaves about in fierce rotations. Fat drops of rain begin to spatter, first hitting the earth in dull thuds and then her bare arms, penetrating through the thin fabric of her nightdress, and she burrows deeper into Harry. Relishing the warmth that radiates off of his skin, the scent that steadies her, and the arms slick with rain that still hold her so tight—tightly to him.
She is uncertain how long they stand there like that, motionless but yet enveloped by each other and by the storm. It isn’t uncomfortable. In fact, it’s welcome, this storm, this silence between them, this lasting embrace. A sort of balm—in a strange way—soothing and very, very real.
Soon the racing clouds overhead whisk away the worst of it and the summer storm passes—taking with it the fat wet drops, the whipping wind, and once more stilling the plunging branches to only a slight dip and rustle. Leaving them alone once more, drenched but still alive, with only the rich scent of green grass and wet earth to remind them that it was ever there at all.
Harry shifts, loosening his hold but only for a moment, and Ginny gasps as her body flushes with a sudden heat. A warm wash of air dries her nightdress—her skin, her hair, her lips, and the same wash of air dries Harry. She can see his features intermittently lit by the tip of his wand still held in his hand, and the strange pockets of moonlight that pass over them as the night clouds continue to race.
It is only now that she realizes that he isn’t wearing his glasses. He looks so different without them, especially in the moonlight…younger…innocent…expectant. She can’t help but touch his face, and she does, just barely, with the tips of her fingers.
“I-I forgot them.”
“But not your wand?”
“No, never my wand.”
She sways slightly on her feet, feeling unsteady. Perhaps it’s because the shifting light makes it impossible to read his eyes, to read him fully, even though less than a foot separates them. Or perhaps it is the silence. Uncertain once more, she returns her hand to her dry clothes and dry hair and clears her throat.
“Thank you—for this.”
Relief rushes through her. He isn’t upset with her, or bothered about being awake—nor angry about being asked to weather a storm on a selfish whim. He isn’t frustrated that he forgot his glasses or that she was silly enough to go anywhere without her wand. He’s not any of those things…he’s happy.
“You’re welcome.” A smile continues to play at the corners of his mouth. He retrieves her hand and squeezes it lightly. “I’ve never stood on a hill during a storm before—you?”
“No.” Ginny smiles, taking a step closer to him. She can’t explain this ridiculously giddy feeling that’s gurgling up within her, but it bubbles, there, just under the surface. How could she have survived so long without this—without him?
“Quite a rush, really,” he says.
“A rush, you think?”
“Yes—though I still prefer brooms, to be honest.”
Ginny laughs, still not quite believing that he is here with her—alone, at last—so close, so alive, and not required by any-one else to be anywhere else.
They both stop realizing they’ve interrupted the other, and soon slow growing—knowing—smiles each creep up to meet the other.
Ginny bites her lip, unbelieving. Is it possible that it can be this easy, this effortless? After so much time, so many scars, and so many nightmares, is it possible that joy—absolute joy—can find you again, so effortlessly?
“Come here,” he says, pulling her back to him. She moves without hesitation and his arms tighten around her, pulling her close. His hands find their way into her hair and weave into it, twining in as deep as they will go, claiming it.
She willingly tilts her lips up knowing what will come, only this time she knows it’s him pursuing her, not the other way around. This time she knows that it isn’t the grogginess of sleep; it’s him needing her just as much as she needs him back, and just like that, the turbulent nightmare that has been the last year of her life ends.
The summer storm finally completes its passing overhead, opening the clouds once more to reveal a brilliant night sky where the stars begin to twinkle again slowly, one by one, and Ginny drinks it all in.
Harry breaks their kiss, but remains close to her—within a breath—brushing the pad of his thumb across her lips before inhaling deeply. A smile spreads across his face.
“Thank you for waking me.”
Ginny grins back, twisting her fingers into the back of his hair and closing the distance between them once again, fully intertwined.