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“He’s got a crush on you,” murmured Hermione as they separated from Ron and Harry, heading now up the stairs to their dormitory for bed.
Ginny tilted her textbook, shaking her head. “Don’t be daft. He just knows that spell better than the rest of you lot.”
Hermione scoffed. “Especially the wand movements. So kind of him to move you through that last part four times.”
Ginny had hoped that Hermione hadn’t noticed; she hadn’t wanted to notice any of it herself. The warmth in her cheeks, the little prickles standing up at the back of her neck. The way she’d flashed back to the Room of Requirement, him steadying her wand hand as she cast her first Patronus. A memory of everything as quick heartbeats and bright light.
She shook her head again, more firmly, blinking it all away. “He can’t have a crush on me. And you know why just as much as I do.”
“If this is about Ron….”
Exasperation rose in Ginny: Hermione was usually better, subtler, more understanding than this.
“Look, of course there’s that, but that’s not half of it. Harry is…you know who he is. You know what he’s done, you know what he’s doing. You know who he is, and who he needs to be.” Memories, again, tumbling and insistent. Harry beside her with a sword in his hand, Harry clutching Cedric’s body as the forms of Hogwarts’ champions flashed back to near the maze. Harry’s commanding voice as he stood in front of everyone to lead them in defense. She saw again the Prophet headline on the Burrow kitchen table. “What’s this Chosen One stuff?,” she’d asked: Ron had flushed and turned away. Ginny heard herself, in this moment, almost snapping at Hermione. “Harry’s got more important things to be getting on with, doesn’t he, than drawing little hearts around my name in his textbook.”
Hermione had paused with four steps still to climb. There was a smudge of ink on her cheek where she’d most likely stroked it absently with the wrong end of her quill; a hint of the pink gloss Ginny had shared with her remained on her pursed lips. It struck Ginny how very young they all were. She got in one last thought before saying goodnight.
“It’s not fair, though, really. He should get a chance.”
Later, Ginny tossed in her bed, envying Demelza her calm snores across the room. Harry had always been more to her than she’d imagined any real boy could be. A crush, yes, but mostly a legend and a savior, a story told in awe to both others and herself. Even connecting with him as a person like she’d been doing left her still feeling star-struck half the time–Harry, just Harry in a dozen real details, seemed as impossibly brave and impossibly wonderful as anything she’d fantasized when he’d been the Boy Who Lived. Could there be room in that for anything like Hermione’s daft idea? He’d fancied Cho, of course…but could he truly fancy her?
Ginny’s own words came back to her. He should get a chance. Neville pinning a corsage on her dress for the Yule Ball, the way Michael stammered when he asked if he could kiss her. Even how Dean had distracted her from…everything…and how nice that had been before its doomed course was run. Harry ought to be given the absolute world: he deserved at least the small pleasures of a crush.
She smiled, then, cheek against the pillow, one hand in her hair. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, for sure, and the future lay ahead like a cliff to be thrown off of. Tonight, though, it might be okay to dream a bit.