Fic: The Persistence of Memory (Harry/Ginny)
To: relly_fortuna
From: trinnifer

Title: The Persistence of Memory
Author: trinnifer
Recipient's name: relly_fortuna
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Harry/Ginny
Warnings (if any): Light bondage and heavy angst
Author's notes (if any): This is my first HP fic in many, many months. Thanks to my most beloved beta, without whom this never would have been written at all! There was much hand-holding and ego-stroking, which was exactly what I needed. And thanks to Rebecca for being so understanding with me.




'I have done that,' says my memory. 'I cannot have done that' -- says my pride, and remains adamant. At last -- memory yields. --Nietzsche

Sometimes, Ginny doesn't want to believe in memory. Like now, as she watches a shadowed figure walk silently through the snowy yellow circles of street lamps. She remembers, even when she wants to forget.

Ginny remembers things so vividly from her fifth year.

She remembers the first chaste kiss, in front of fifty-odd people, Harry surprised and her hands still shaking from the adrenaline of the win. She remembers everyone watching as they walked out of the Common Room. She remembers the way his hand felt joined in hers, the way the breeze touched them as he stopped her and kissed her under a tree. The sunlight filtered down on them and he ran his fingers through her hair and everything just felt.

She felt everything.

Ginny remembers the night she met Harry in front of the Room of Requirement, and they held hands and whispered together as they walked past. She remembers what struck her the most about the room they created together was the simpleness of it, bed and coverlet and feather pillow, soft white curves against pale skin and black hair.

"It's okay, Harry, you won't break me."

"It's not that, I just don't..."

"Don't know?"

"Yes."

"Here." She takes his hand and guides it to her breast, they both hiss in pleasure as he runs a thumb over the nipple. Harry is a quick learner and soon she is panting and he is exploring and kissing her and holding her so gently it takes her breath away. His hands move with teenage awkwardness, fueled by lust and uncertainty, and there's something more, too. Longing.

It isn't his touch that makes her want to implode. It's his heart.

She smiles reassuringly as his hand moves lower, brushing softly over her ginger curls. His eyes are questioning as he slides a finger lower, dips into her wetness. "Like this?"

She arches her back sweetly, closes her eyes. Opens them to find brilliant green reflecting her own need-darkened brown. "Like that, Harry."

She loves him like that.

*

Sometimes, when things are particularly bad, Ginny finds herself on her back in the hallway of her small flat. And tonight, things are bad. She closes her eyes and clutches handfuls of carpet, because she remembers. The sense-memory falls over like he did that night, when they couldn't wait. The night the war was over. The night she thought she could be his.

"Oh, Harry...oh god, Harry..."

They are both high off of victory, can taste it on each other. He'd grabbed her and Apparated them both in mid-kiss, and any other time they'd have been scared half to death from the near-splinch, but tonight they don't even notice. They tumble to the floor as soon as the they stop spinning, clothes tearing frantically and buttons scattering everywhere.

She is slick and ready for him, and as he enters her, she gasps and he freezes, and she is frozen, too. And they look at each other, and they breathe together.

Has it ever been like this with anyone before? She can't remember.

They exhale the same breath and then it becomes a war, all hands and lips and teeth and tongue, nails scratching and bodies sweat-slick, and they fight to prolong the fall but in the end, they both lose quickly, calling out for deities and then each other and then for some nameless, wordless thing. It is over as quick as it had begun.

He collapses on her and he is shaking, and she holds him until his pulse slows and he is still.

Now she remembers. Never like this.

*

Ginny stands up. She doesn't go out much anymore, but tonight she shrugs into her coat and decides to go pick up something to eat, because she's tired of waiting. She's been waiting for almost six months, through long summer days and autumn twilights and winter's chill. It's January and Harry hasn't come back, not like he promised, and she should have known better to accept a promise from a broken man, broken like he was the last night she spent with him.

She doesn't want to remember it, but then she makes the mistake of winding her scarf around her neck and it's warm and still smells like them, and she finds herself breathing in deep. Remembering, even as she wills herself not to.

"Harry, what...?"

He has her old Gryffindor scarf in his hand, and he's looking at her with a hunger she's never seen before from anyone, and he's not smiling. Then again, she can't remember the last time he'd smiled.

She wishes for smiles, but he's got something else in mind.

"I won't hurt you, Ginnybean." The endearing nickname does nothing to assuage her fears, and she trembles. It's part anticipation, for they'd been playing games with each other all night, seeing who could hold out the longest or make each other moan the loudest. It's also part fear. He's not smiling, and his eyes are dark, and his mind is darker, too. Defeating the Dark Lord took all of the joy out of him, she thinks. Left him broken, missing something, prone to nightmares and periods of deep, depressive contemplation.

And now this.

Harry moves behind her and puts his hands on her shoulders, guides her to her knees. He follows, and then he is dragging his tongue over the curve of her neck, hearing the catch in her breath and feeling her shake. "Shh," he whispers, gently soothing her with mouth and tongue and hands cupping her breasts. "I won't hurt you." But she's not so sure, and then he starts trailing the scarf over her electrified skin, over her breasts and across her center, and the trembling won't stop. It's too much, too intense, and that's what scares her the most.

"I don't...what..." Her brain moves her mouth but lets nothing coherent out, and she can only hope he gets her point. Suddenly she aches to touch him and be sure that he's still Harry. This isn't anything like her Harry.

He stills her hand. Brings it behind her, does the same with the other one. She stiffens. "I would never hurt you, Ginny." He whispers the words, mouth against her skin, gentle and erotic and scary and oh god, she is drowning in sensation. Drowning in him. No turning back now.

"You have to trust me. It'll be okay." He binds her hands with the scarf, and for the first time in her life she feels helpless. At his mercy. She shouldn't love him, shouldn't love this. Shouldn't love how gentle he's being, his searing kisses on her shoulders as he takes the scarf and...oh no...binds her ankles...she is caught off guard, off balance. "Harry, what is this? What's going on?"

He moves around to face her, sucks in a long, low breath at the sight of her presented to him, prefect breasts, perfect shell-pink lips glistening wet for him. "Do you love me?"

"Yes, Harry."

"How much?"

She hesitates. He's never asked this before. "More than words."

"Then don't be afraid." His hands span her waist and pull her to him, and he claims her lips in an ungentle kiss. Her body responds immediately, writhing against him because she can't touch him and it's the only thing she wants right now. The kiss doesn't let up, even though she feels like she might suffocate from the depth of it, and as his fingers slip into the depths of her wet heat she moans against his lips and struggles against her bindings. He pulls away, and the look in his eyes is enough to make her heart stop. She can't stop looking, not as he slips a finger into her, than another, then a third. Not as he slides his other hand around her waist, presses firmly against the small of her back. It's the only thing keeping her upright. The hand on her back presses her closer to him, until she thinks that she must be burning him with the heat of her skin and the heat in her eyes. His breath slides across her cheek as he whispers to her, "That's it, love...don't be afraid. Let me see you come, you are so beautiful like this."

She pushes and strains and rebels against the scarf that keeps her hands from his skin, even though she knows it's useless. It only makes him push into her deeper, until she is riding his hand, shamelessly pleasuring herself with him as he watches her, and it builds and builds and he is whispering in her ear and she wants to come, wants it so badly she can almost...almost...

"Beautiful," he says, and that one words sends her careening over the edge. She is bucking and moaning and when she finally comes down, she feels lightheaded. He holds her till the shaking stops, and she opens her eyes and she doesn't understand, because he should be smiling.

Harry calls her beautiful again, and she knows he means it. But he doesn't smile.

*

Ginny looks down again at the piece of paper in her hand. She knows the handwriting, and that's all she needs to know exactly what it's going to say. Her gaze drifts to the window and the figure silhouetted in the lamp light, messy black hair and coat tails trailing behind him as he walks away. He doesn't look back, but she doesn't expect him to. This time, it's for real. This time, he's too broken for her. And this time, she doesn't want him back in her life. All she wants is the memory.