FIC: This Too Shall Pass (Harry/Ginny)
To: LadyTory
From: Your Secret Santa

Title: This Too Shall Pass
Author: jairissa (fic journal)
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Summary: In the aftermath of the final battle, Harry had wanted only for food and sleep. It takes him longer to realise that he will need more than that to bring himself back to life.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Underage sex. Technically I suppose that Ginny is only 16 in the beginning of this, although she is getting close to her 17th birthday. Harry, similarly, is nearly 18.
Author's notes: Not as angst filled as the summary would make it seem. Also contained a great deal more plot than was originally intended, with that occasionally making the smut take a backseat. Nevertheless, the smut is there, so hopefully it evens out.


~*.*~


Harry covers his ears for a moment, fingers pushing against the continuous thump thump thump pervading the air in waves, rising through the floorboards and seeping through the walls. Even as he does this the uneven beat doesn't subside, making him wonder whether it is coming from the common room downstairs or from a particularly vindictive part of his brain, intent on tugging away at the last piece of sanity he believes he possesses.

Ginny stands by the door, alternating between frustrated pacing and furious ranting. She doesn't cry, something that strikes him whenever he looks at her, which is often. Occasionally she will turn her head away for a moment, as though listening to something that Harry himself cannot hear, something hidden by the rush of the beat downstairs, the slow thump of the pulse in his ears and the uncharacteristically late rainfall splattering against the window that Harry has his back pressed to.

"I can't believe they're celebrating," she says furiously, fingers twisting around a lock of messy, tangled red hair. Harry takes a breath and opens his mouth to say something, closing it again when he finds he does not know what that would be. He is not used to this feeling of helplessness, not with her; she has always been there, hovering in the background, knowing and accepting all his deepest secrets so that he has no need to talk of them. "I don't understand it. I don't understand how they can look around, see all the gaps in between them and still think that any of this was something to celebrate."

Harry's lips twitch, and he can't tell whether he wants to grimace or sigh. He compromises with a frown, something in his chest tugging at him because that he cannot find the simple words to comfort her as she has so many times for him. He fiddles with his tie, the too small uniform the only clean clothing the house-elves were able to find for him. He doesn't know who it belongs, or belonged, to and he thinks that he might prefer it that way. He doesn't know whether he could bear it, to find out that it was meant to belong to one of the many people who would now never come back.

"Do they really think that music and butterbeer will drown it out?" Ginny continues bitterly, one hand dropping to rest crookedly on her stomach, the other slapping emphatically against the door. Her voice cracks and Harry look up in alarm, but she does nothing more than look away for a moment before turning a calm face back to him. "I see him...every time I look around, I see somewhere that he's been. Somewhere he still should be. But he isn't, and the people who should care are spending their time dancing and making...making jokes that aren't as funny as the ones he would have made. I can't bear to eat, or sleep or even move most of the time, and they're...they're acting as though nothing ever happened. As though they're just won the bloody Quidditch cup or something."

She doesn't continue further, and out of want of something, anything, to do, Harry turns his attention to the skies. The air outside seems strangely still, unaffected by unending rhythm that the people downstairs are using to try and convince themselves that Harry's one action will make the world an innocent place again.

It only occurs to Harry that he has lost track of time when he feels the whisper of Ginny's hand across his back, her lips pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. A small smile graces his mouth before he represses it, not ready to be so dismissing of what has been lost. He knows there is no waiting period for grief, that life goes on immediately, whether one is ready or not, but he would still consider it a betrayal to those he loves to pretend that the loss of their lives was less important than anything else in his world in this moment.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Ginny whispers, brushing a warm hand over his forehead. When he looks at her properly, there is a touch of concern in her large brown eyes. She climbs on to the window seat with him, leaning against the opposite wall as she examines him closely.

"I think I see them everywhere," Harry says, pointlessly it seems, as he is unable to explain what he means by that. It is easy to see a ghost in this place, the Hogwarts ghosts returning in triumph. What Harry is referring to is the return of the living, looking as though nothing has happened between the last time he had seen them and now. He does not understand how so much could change on the inside, while the outside appeared the same; he finds it within himself, most of all. His reflection is identical to what he had always known, the rest of him changed so much that he does not believe he can recognize it.

Ginny tilts her head to face him, the concern in her eyes seeping slowly onto her face. Harry finds it almost painful; she has such a weight on her shoulders already, it almost crushes him to know that he is placing more there. "So do I," she says eventually, and Harry cannot help but relax slightly at the idea that she, as she always manages to do, somehow understands him. "Except the very few that I would want to see."

For a moment he wishes he hadn't 'lost' the resurrection stone in the forest, if only so that he can see a light on her face again. Instead he takes her hand, holding it gently as he tries to think of words to comfort her. He doesn't quite know where his voice has gone, knowing that he is usually able to say something more this, even as he recalls that emotions have never been his strong suit. It's a fault he wants desperately, in this moment, to correct: failing the ability to bring them back for her, he wishes that he could explain that whether or not she can see them, they are right there with her, watching.

"You'll see them again," Harry says instead, cursing himself for the cliched statement that escapes him. He thinks that he may be forgiven, considering that he knows that for a fact, rather than just using it as a vague concept to make a grieving acquaintance feel better about a horrible situation.

"Harry," Ginny says in a voice far more gentle than he had expected from her. He meets her eyes and realises belatedly that the concern in her eyes had been directed at, and entirely caused by, him and he feels even more guilty at the thought of that. "I know that. I know that, at this exact second, they're no doubt laughing in sheer disbelief that we're this sad for them."

She trails off and Harry listens intently for her next words, the silence dragging on as they don't come. When it sinks into this foggy brain that they have not, and are not likely to, he forces himself to look back at her, afraid to face the disappointment that he knows he will see there.

As always, she surprises him, her eyes containing a mixture of hopelessness and understanding, the emotion so familiar that Harry near collapses with relief at the epiphany that he is not alone in this. For all the people who are celebrating downstairs, at least one person continues to understand him.

"I'm sorry," he stammers, entranced as Ginny's own lips twisted in a darker doppelganger of his own expression, his hopelessness transforming into a harsh determination. He looks around to see if he can discover what has inspired her so, but things look the same as they had moments earlier. He winces at the understanding that he knew Ginny as little as she knew him well, and he resolved to spend the next days, years preferably, discovering the pieces of her that were missing in the picture in his mind.

As she leans forwards to kiss him, Harry is caught by surprise, the soft tingle of her lips against his taking a few moments to penetrate the fog in his brain. Yet more time passes before Harry forces his exhausted, lethargic limbs to respond, fighting past the paralysis that has struck him to place a shaking hand on Ginny's cheek, lips opening infinitesimally slowly against the warmth of Ginny's own.

Harry moves to pull away, to smile and pull her gently into his arms in the only expression of affection that he is comfortable with, but she doesn't allow him that moment of comfortable reassurance. Instead she runs her tongue along his lower lip, a silky, wet sensation that is somehow wonderful in the same way that his last wet kiss was horrible.

"Gin," he whispers against her lips, unsure of what she wants him to do next. He feels her smile, the twisting of her mouth brushing sweetly over his own and Harry sighs, distracted enough to forget entirely what he had been meaning to say moments before. He tries again, forcing the thought to re-solidify before he opens his mouth, determined to make some small form of sense.

"I'm here," she whispers back and while Harry knows that it doesn't even remotely answer the question he voiced, it's adequate enough; somehow it just reminds him that he needs to properly find the question before he can understand the answer.

As Harry muses that point, the brief shock he had felt at the first touch of her lips settling back into the devastating numbness he is becoming used to, Ginny reaches for him again, hands sliding over his shoulders and cupping his neck. He looks down at her, at the velvet brown eyes that are so utterly open and devoid of any attempt to deceive him that Harry leans down to kiss her again, sliding one hand into the silky-soft hair handing over her shoulders.

This time it is she who whispers his name, the tiny sigh barely audible under the desperate inhale of his breath and the shaky exhale of her voice. "Harry," she murmurs again and Harry takes that as a sign to pull away, stopped only by the iron-strong grip she has on the collar of his shirt. He smiles again, slightly confused, but complies by kissing her again, the broken skin on his mouth sliding easily against the wet-softness of her own.

"It's all right," Ginny says, her voice both calm and reassuring and Harry is at a loss as to what she is agreeing to. "I want to." His mind immediately flies to the thousand innocent touches they have shared, and the one or two of which were not so innocent, none of which seem to him at this time memorable enough to bear quite this insistence of repetition.

His breath halts entirely when she reaches her hands that Harry, even in his foggy stupor, realises are sure and un-trembling up to the neck of her blouse, making quick work of the buttons that are holding it together. Harry looks at her, face contorting in a mixture of shock and sheer lack of understanding as she takes his hand in hers. "I want to," she repeats, and Harry laughs. It is as much out of shock as the idea that he honestly doesn't know if he can. He's certainly never done it before; if practice makes perfect, then Harry is so unpractised as to be ridiculous.

Still, he does not protest as Ginny tugs his hand to her shoulder and helps him to push the white shirt away, nor does he push her away as she leans forward to press her mouth to his, tongue entwining loosely with his own as Harry feels the tension holding him together start to come apart.

At the loss of the stiffness of his back and the tired contraction of his muscles, Harry falls back on to the window seat, head thumping almost painfully against the window sill. Ginny laughs, a soft breathy sound that is cut off almost immediately, but which manages to quite randomly entertain him; he thinks it must have been too long since he has heard it.

When she kisses him again it is more relaxed and less reserved. They stay that way for what may be an eternity, kissing lazily as Ginny's shirt hangs half off her shoulders, the white material fluttering in a breeze from the window, open only the tiniest amount in an attempt to combat the rising stenches of blood, sweat and death.

Sighing, Harry shifts on to his side so that there is room for her to lay down beside him, the excess exposed skin pressed against the thin material of his own school shirt helping to penetrate his ever-pervading numbness. With the loss of it he feels the cold abyss of despair even more strongly and he presses himself against Ginny in an attempt to force it away. He only realises the other meanings this could have when he hears her moan, a sound that fills him with satisfaction even as he knows that he has no conscious responsibility for it. Gathering his courage, Harry slides one of his legs between the two of hers, both gratified by the repetition of the breathy moan and terrified because he has no idea where to go from here.

She manages to answer that question, at least momentarily, as she shrugs her blouse fully off, following it with the skimpy material of her bra. From here, Harry's task seems at least temporarily easy; cupping and teasing her breasts and nipples until her moans are constant, soft and sweet against his ear as he explores this new side of her.

"Harry, I want..." she whispers, and he murmurs an agreement, knowing her questing, wanting feeling intimately. She breaks away, eyes pleasing and he gapes blankly, both at the sight of her flushed face and his own nameless wanting.

Harry whimpers embarrassingly as Ginny's fingers make their way to the zipper on his pants, undoing it quickly and then looking at him expectantly. Harry's throat closes and he looks at her with a suddenly dry mouth, entirely sure that he will never be able to decipher what she wants, what he is expected to do next, by himself. He thinks that if were anyone else he would be ashamed to admit it, would be unable to voice the words "I don't know how," but with her the vocalisation is easy.

She looks at him, lip worried between her teeth as she encourages him to sit up enough to shimmy his school pants and boxers down his thighs. His shirt, her skirt and panties come next, and Harry is utterly bemused that they are both naked and he feels nothing about it.

It takes him several moments of staring at Ginny's naked form to recognise that there is something wrong with this. He looks up to meet her eyes, finding them filled with the same, terrified uncertainty that he feels in his own and something in Harry breaks. He realises, all too late, that he is not the only one feeling this despair and numbness; he is not the only one so lost that he doesn't think he will ever be able to be found.

"I think they would want us to live," she says and Harry agrees, the notion striking him with the force of a canon ball. Of course they would; he certainly had wanted the ones he loved to live when he had been certain that he was walking to his death. He nods, trying to hide the fact that they were obviously having very different conversation, only because her conversation is making much more sense than his own.

Forcing himself to trust in her, Harry divests himself of the rest of his clothes, eyes widening in a combination of shock and enchantment as what very little she had left followed quickly after. He tries to take advantage of the moment, as he was sure any of the men he had lost would have, hands caressing every millimetre of skin that he can find, stroking softly over her adorably whimsical freckles, even as she attempts to hide them.

As he reaches the edge of his knowledge quickly, he is glad that the warmth slowly filling him is able to hide all manner of sins. He feels almost smug at the sound of her gasp as he reaches out to take a nipple between his teeth, scraping gently over it. Her gasps, moans, sighs and brief words of encouragement are like another language to him, one he learns slowly through her reactions to his every movement. It is only when he finds himself on top of her, position between her soft, open legs that he allows himself a brief moment of sheer panic, trying to hide that between yet another gentle exploration of the sensitive skin of her neck.

He has heard that the body knows what to do even when the mind does not, and Harry tries to convince himself of this as he lies pressed against her on the uncomfortable material of the window seat. "Harry," Ginny starts and Harry feels himself begin to close himself off from her in a fear that he would not be able to be what she wants. He feels her pause underneath him, fingers lightly stroking at his hair and manages not to pull away only through sheer determination not to hurt her again. "I love you."

Harry's eyes fly open in shock and he stares at her for a moment, absolutely flummoxed by how easily she can say the words. He kisses her in response, taking over control as easily as she had at first, hands gently tracing over her curves as he leans down to press a reverent kiss to her neck.

He makes his way down her stomach, entirely too tempted to count the number of freckles there as he does so. There seems to be thousands, millions, and Harry resolves in that moment that he will create enough time in his life to count them all, memorise every one of them, and find a way to explain to her why they are magnificent. I love you too, he thinks, wishing he was as able as she to be able to just come out and say it.

When he slips a hand between her legs, caressing the space between her curls gently, she almost comes off the seat, voice crying out so loudly that Harry is afraid they will be heard over the music downstairs. "Maybe we should..." Harry stutters, moving to indicate the bed, sitting so closely to them. Underneath him, hips arching into the fingers that were resting softly against her sex, Ginny shakes her head helplessly, brown eyes wide and pleading.

"Please," she says and Harry finally understands what she is asking him. She does not want Harry better, or a perfect moment that matches the dreams she has had since girlhood. She does not want the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived. She, for a reason he cannot understand, wants Harry; the boy who cannot whisper a sweet nothing to save his life, and who would not recognise a romantic gesture if it rose up and bit him in the arse. And, even more miraculously, that idea was more precious and worth protecting than any other Harry has experienced.

Nodding, even as he knows that Ginny's tightly closed eyes render her unable to see his response, Harry lets his fingers brush softly over her clit, delighting in the cry that she tries to stifle. Another finger, almost without any approval of his own, slides gently inside her and Harry's eyes soften as he sees hers open in alarm.

"I'm not," she says, swallowing heavily, fingers freezing where they have been idly stroking Harry's cheek. "Dean and I...I mean, we..."

Harry wonders at her obvious fear, and how upset she seems to think he will be at the discovery that his girlfriend has in fact done this before. Instead he is filled with a profound sense of relief that one of them knows that they're doing, and will be able to guide him and let him know if he is doing something wrong. He supposes that maybe he should feel even more inadequate, but here, with Ginny, it is impossible.

"I thought..." she whispers, face turning from him as though trying to hide it in shame. Harry turns it back towards him, trying to show through his expression that whatever anything she had done before had meant, it was a different universe from here. It is this moment that matters, and everything they will chose to do after it. She freezes momentarily under his gaze, searching for a reproach that he will never give her.

"Are mine now?" He asks, and her 'yes' is as much an exhalation of breath as it is an affirmation, but to Harry this is enough. "Then it doesn't matter to me."

Harry shifts his hips between her legs, hardness brushing against the warmth of her, his careful control falling apart under his body's spectacularly pleasurable betrayal. He fumbles for a moment, needing to reach a hand between them to properly guide himself against her entrance, sliding inside her slowly in an attempt to hold himself back. The warm, wet tightness that surrounded him sends Harry's mind into a spin, and despite how easily he had been able to push inside her it still seems an eternity before he is able to force his eyes to open and meet hers.

"God, Gin," he whispers, breath caressing her cheek as he tries to force himself to remain still, unwilling to move until Ginny gives him some signal that this is all right.

"Just me," she breathes back, the hint of laughter in her voice strained. Harry smiles as he kisses her, because the two of them are more closely entwined to him than he can easily express. It seems easier to agree with her than explain exactly what position she holds in his heart.

As always, it is Ginny that shows him the way, the slow movement of her hips guiding Harry towards what he is meant to do, and he takes to the new task with a sort of fumbling enthusiasm, thrusting inside her slowly. Ginny melts beneath him and Harry takes her soft noises as an encouragement to continue exactly how he is. He cannot be sure whether it is because of or in spite of this that he begins to move faster, the combination of warmth and soft moans distracting him more than all the Horcruxes and Hallows he had been chasing combined.

There have been moments like this before, Harry recalls, stolen seconds where he has desperately tried to get himself off before Hermione and Ron had found him, but somehow they seemed useless in preparing him for these brief, beautiful moments where he was moving inside Ginny, her breath coming in pants against his ear, body arching unrestrainedly against his own.

He cries out in a kind of desperation as he comes, feeling himself spill inside Ginny. This, perhaps, is more real than any of it that has come before, and he recalls a thousand whispered warnings against this lack of caution. "What about..." he manages, referring to one of the many things they should have thought about before this, and the possible consequences that came with it.

"I don't care," she says, her voice aching with the same desperation that he felt in himself the moment before, and Harry realises with a sense of shame that while he has had his pleasure from her, she is still waiting for her own. Reaching between her legs, Harry strokes her with as much gentleness as he can, sighing in relief as he slides two fingers inside her and she shudders against him.

"I'm sorry," he moves to say, determined to apologise in some way, but she melts against him again, arching against his fingers, and Harry feels her tightening around him. She cries out, and Harry is so struck by the unrestrained look of pleasure on her face that the words finally come to him and he manages to say what he has wanted since she first walked in to his room. "I love you too."

She smiles, lazily, and Harry lets himself fall against her, head resting against the sweaty skin of her shoulder. Her fingers trace over the patterns of his back, and he realises absurdly that his glasses are still on, as are her socks and a new necklace he does not think he has seen before. "This wasn't what I planned..." he starts, and she laughs shakily.

"I hope they weren't watching us just then," she says randomly, and Harry bursts into laughter against her, eyes closing for what feels like the first time in days. He mutters an agreement as he feels his eyes shut, body too relaxed to want to move; perhaps they could stay here for a few moments just until the music stops or the unrelenting rain on the window beside them begins to abate, and Harry can think again. Surely that moment is not too far away.

Even if it was, he thinks hazily, they have all the time in the world to wait for it now.