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Ginny’s voice as she called to him cut across the lawn. Harry stopped, pivoting on the slick grass, and faced her, taking in everything as she approached. Her hair damp, the smell of it mixed with that of the rain that had just ended. Bright prickles of water on the fuzz of her mustard yellow jumper. With classes canceled, there was no point in uniforms: he found a strange comfort in seeing her as she’d looked while at the Burrow.
Her eyes went from him to the Astronomy Tower in front of them, and then quickly back to him, before she asked him a question that he could have asked of her. “What are you doing out here?”
He shrugged. “Just wandering.”
“Didn’t think to wander to the Great Hall for lunchtime.” He tried to form a sheepish smile, but his lips didn’t comply. Ginny regarded him intently, then took his hand and pulled him by it, leading him to the wall and gesturing. “Sit down. Please.” He slid himself against the bricks and she opened the satchel that she’d slung across her body, withdrawing a ham sandwich she’d wrapped up in a napkin. She lowered herself beside him and spoke again.
“You don’t eat, when things happen.” He quirked an eyebrow at her, and she met his gaze, unabashed. “I noticed it after the Tournament. Before the last task, really, but I couldn’t be sure. And then again last year, after Sirius died.”
“You don’t eat when things happen,” she repeated. “Like you’re punishing yourself.”
He flushed and took a bite, the bread cold, hard-crusted, unappetizing. He’d eat it for her, he owed her that much. It was, he realized, a little easier, away from the rest of them. He was ready to thank her when she spoke instead.
“And that’s crap.”
Harry raised both eyebrows, mouth open in mock horror. “Language, Ms. Weasley. Ten points from Gryffindor.” He still couldn’t smile. The look she gave him was the same.
“It’s not your fault. It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have saved him, or you would have done .” The sureness in her voice took him aback: it was something he liked most about her, usually, but this time, it felt almost naive.
He muttered his response, gaze fixed on his lap. “Dumbledore told me it wasn’t my fault, with Sirius. Sirius told me it wasn’t my fault, with Cedric.” The unspoken connection suddenly burned through him and he looked up, fighting the urgency of two impulses at once. To hold her, to shield her, to make sure it couldn’t happen. To drop the sandwich on the grass and run away, with the same goal.
It was as if he’d actually put the idea into the world: it seemed to flash behind her own eyes and she gripped his shoulder. “Don’t.”
She released him. “It doesn’t work like that,” she continued, her voice softer, almost tired.
The question came out before he could think better of it, as sincere as it was biting: he really did want to know, almost thought that she could tell him. “How does it work, Gin?”
“The fuck if I know. But, truly….not like that.” She paused, looking up at the clouds over the tower where the Dark Mark had been set. The rain they’d released had lightened them a bit, but they were still gray as they drifted, thin in the sky.
“We’ll figure it out, all of us. For now, Harry…eat.” He hadn’t imagined it: her voice really was tired.
“Thanks.” He lifted the sandwich and set himself to the task of eating the rest.
She nodded, reaching again into her satchel, withdrawing a flask. “Let’s just take things a bit at a time."