kisses are a better fate

Messrs. fireworkfiasco and reallycorking, Definite Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers, are proud to present a Collaboration of Wit and Wrath for hpgw_ficafest's Sixth Wave of Challenges, entitled:

kisses are a better fate
[Harry/Ginny; PG.13; 1719 words]
Author: fireworkfiasco
Artist: reallycorking
Challenge: 32 - Post-battle, Harry's reunion with Ginny doesn't goes as he expected - she's mad at him for playing dead.
Rating: PG.13

Summary: You’re in love with Harry Potter, clearly; the same Harry Potter that managed to get himself killed not too long after you figured things out.

- - -

It's actually very hard to realize that you may be in love and then have to mourn the fool all within the same hour.

This is all very obvious, of course, after wands have been laid to rest and the battle is over. And it hurts, when you figure it out – when you realize what it is that’s been so heavy in your mind all morning.

You’re in love with Harry Potter, clearly; the same Harry Potter that managed to get himself killed not too long after you figured things out.

Of course, it hadn’t stuck. Him being dead, that is.

But before that, when he was limp and dirty and, at least, dead-looking, you’d thought that was it. Time was up. He was gone and there wasn’t anymore story to be told.

It had all happened so – so unexpectedly, really. Things were calm and tense and maybe the battle was far from being over, but it wasn’t done and then – and then things seemed to jump into focus.

Harry was dead, the war was over, and you were lost.

You hadn’t been able to see much when it happened; there had been too many people all trying to see the same thing and then those who had seen and didn’t want you to see.

You’d still manage to catch the swing of his arm through the crowd, dangling like a — well, like a dead thing and that had been enough. You’d closed your eyes to keep it from being real, and let the crowd’s roar drown out the rushing in your ears. The very memory of it still makes you taste bile in the back of your throat.

Everything after that is a smear of shouting, yells, chaos. Someone pulled your arm, there was a shouted “This isn’t the end!” over your shoulder, and your cheeks were inexplicably dry. There hadn’t been time to cry, you think, or else surely you’d have wept.

There was a reason you went after Bellatrix, and it was a kind of pure, blustering panic -- she’d laughed a hard, broken cackle of a laugh that broke something in you, and you’d flown into battle without thinking. It was almost like dueling with your eyes closed.

When her spell flew past you, so close the air smelt burnt, it felt hollow. Even your mother’s passion didn’t feel real. A dance with death and it found you wanting, found you blind and waiting. It was just death, after all. Nothing new – you’d met it several times that morning, hadn’t you?

Oh – and then, and then – the shouts, the cheering, the silence. The rekindling of hope. He wasn’t dead; Harry wasn’t dead.

The bloody fool.

::

When everything’s said and done, he’s gone again. Disappeared with Ron and Hermione to heaven knows where, while you sit with your mother and ponder how ironic it is that you can fall in love with a dead boy. Dead man. Dead whichever.

And it’s easy enough to blame him for it, with him being the hero and all.

Blame him for the fact that he swept off to the woods to die, and without a word to you – no sign, no warning – nothing. You can only hope to knock some sense into him the next time you see him. But, before then, there are other things to be said and done.

You keep an eye on the door, waiting for one of them to show their face again. It’s almost two hours later, and it’s Ron, clutching Hermione’s hand like an anchor.

He approaches you – and your mother – carefully, and waits until she’s finished hugging them both before he sits next to you. The look on his face is raw and candid and you have to bite your lip to keep from blurting out ridiculous questions you know he can’t answer.

“He’s upstairs. Sleeping. He wants – well, he wants to see you. But Hermione – ”

“He needs his rest,” Hermione cuts in, voice careful. “He’s been through a lot, and – ”

“I understand. I’ll – I can wait.”

You sit patiently for almost another hour before you’re fidgeting on the bench, trying to focus on anything that doesn’t have to do with The-Boy-Who-Lived sleeping away the rest of forever upstairs.

Ron and Hermione are talking in low voices on one side of you, their hands buried between them in the folds of their robes. You’re almost certain that if the girl’s dormitory stairs weren’t enchanted, they’d never had reappeared downstairs, smacking of infatuation.

It makes you a little queasy as you try to decide if hurrying upstairs is really such a good idea.

When you stand, Ron crows in triumph and holds out a hand to Hermione. “Told you she couldn’t wait. Pay up.”

::

The Common Room is unusually cold when you fold yourself up in a chair near the feeble fire, curling your arms about your knees as you wait. You’ve never been up to the boy’s side of the dormitories, even though you’re sure some of the other girls have, and you’re not about to venture up there now.

You’ve already faced too many unknowns today.

And there’s the little matter of the fact that your boyfriend – your, well, whatever he is – needs his beauty rest. Which leaves you camped out in the crumbling Common Room waiting for him.

The light from the dying fire flickers around the room in the growing dusk and it’s a battle to keep your eyes open. There’s a rumble in the distance that might be thunder, or it might be the sound of destruction on the horizon. You don’t want to be sure, so you hum some half-remembered melody to a Happy Hag song to keep yourself from listening too closely.

You must have fallen asleep because when you open your eyes, the room is dark and cold, and Harry’s watching you from the landing on the boy’s staircase, eyes heavy in the moonlight filtering in through the window.



It would be romantic, if not for the fact that he dumped you at a funeral. And the little part where he up and died without saying good-bye.

“Ginny?” he asks when you stir, a nice crick blossoming in your neck as you sit up. “Are you – how are you feeling?”

“Sore,” you answer honestly, and his chuckle feels forced.

He doesn’t speak again, and it gives you a chance to look at him without trying to find words. There’s a rather nice bruise around one eye, and a scrape on his throat that looks fresh – and he’s filthy, but he’s alive and that’s more than enough for you.

“Harry,” you try, and he starts down the stairs towards you, eyes never once leaving yours. It’s disconcerting because you’re trying to remember how to be angry with the boy – man – who tore your heart out this afternoon, but it’s difficult with him looking at you like that.

He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, hand on the railing, and it drives you to action.

You’re the one hurrying towards him now, fisting handfuls of his robe and dragging his lips down to yours as you kiss him properly, your mouth hard and sure. Right as he begins to twist his hands in your hair, you tug away and shove him back against the wall behind him with all your strength.

“How dare you?”

He looks surprised, hands curled around yours. “Er, what did I - ?”

There’s a moment where you’re struggling for words, fingers tightening around bunches of his robe, but then you’re almost sobbing and you can’t stop yourself from sagging against him.

“You were dead, Harry. You have no idea – no idea – what it was like to see you lying there – ” Your voice breaks and you shove yourself away from him, burying your face in your hands. The room stays silent and still and you’re clutching your mouth to try and stifle the sounds you’re making.

“Ginny, I – I had to. It was the only way to, er, to finish things.” His hand ghosts along your shoulder and you spin on him. “There wasn’t any other way.”

“You had to prance off to die without saying good-bye?” You’re sure your eyes are red and wet, but he’s almost smiling, the cocky bastard, and you itch to slap that grin off his face.

“Well, it didn’t turn out like all that, you know?” he says, taking a step towards you, sending you skittering away from him. You’re mad at him, after all, and it’s hard to stay mad when he’s touching you.

“I noticed you’re rather lively, yea,” you spit, and there’s enough venom in your voice that he pauses for a moment before continuing to follow you as you back across the room.

“Yea,” he murmurs, but then he’s trapped you and he’s close enough that you can smell the smoke of him, the way he reeks of grass and forest and dirt and death, but he’s still Harry under it all, and your hands grip his forearms almost without thought.

And then he’s kissing you and you’ve forgotten what most of the fuss was about because this is what being alive is about; it’s about him pressed against you against a wall, and things like tomorrow and heat and maybes.

His hand finds your hip, and your fingers are in his hair, and there’s a gasp and a pinched moan from the both of you. Your knees are shaking.

“I – I’m not going to just forgive you, just like that,” you manage against his mouth, and this time his chuckle sounds more like your Harry.

He doesn’t seem to care; too busy with far more interesting things, like the curve of your jaw, than whatever it is you’re babbling as he tries to kiss you into submission. “That’s fine,” he says, and there’s a rasp along your throat that’s truly bothersome.

“Aren’t we supposed to fight about this?”

“How about tomorrow? I think there’s been enough fighting for today. I was nearly killed, you remember.”

“Ha,” you say weakly, and his hands cup your face, mouth hot against yours. “Really funny, that.”

There’s a moment of silence and then he laughs, head thrown back, and he’s alive, and that’s that.