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The sight of Harry and Ron scampering through the Gryffindor Tower corridor, arms wrapped around each other, is startling enough. But when Ginny sees Harry snuggle his head into Ron's shoulder, she careens to a halt.
She figures there's context, but this would explain a lot about the two of them.
"Would you stop loitering about and help me?" Ron bursts out.
Ginny rolls her eyes and abandons her dark corner. "Harry finally confess his love to you?" she flashes a grin.
She doesn't hear the witty remark she expects. To her utter shock, a giggle reverberates through Harry's chest. His hand slaps swiftly on his mouth to hide it.
She frowns.
"Don't worry, Ginny, you still have a chance," Ron huffs, pushing his sweaty hair back. She turns to glimpse Harry's reaction, but gratefully, he is unfazed. "Merlin's Beard, Harry, when did you get so heavy?"
Harry lets out another giggle. "Payback for when I had to carry you to Madam Pomfrey's."
"His sense of humor is still there," Ginny notes slowly. "So I take it it's not another love potion?"
"Cheering charm," Ron affirms. "Well, potion. My father once said it was like Muggle laughing gas." He adjusts Harry's arm. "Romilda got upset that her love potion didn't work, apparently. Said some bollocks about how Harry likes funny girls. Now can you help out a bit?"
She sighs. As disconcerting as this situation is, at least Harry's will isn't called into question. She can imagine Ron—who knows all of this too recently—would throw a larger fit about that. She's on the verge of hexing Romilda as it is.
Ron's hold is slipping. Ginny rushes to slide her arm around Harry's other side. Her face warms at how snug she fits next to him.
Clearly, Harry agrees because he drags her against him even more. No. Think of Dea—"Have I told you how nice you smell?" He then turns to clarify to Ron, "She smells really nice." Ron roars with laughter.
"Shut it," Ginny grits, hiding a smile. Dean, Dean, Dean. "We have enough laughing idiots as is."
In a few more inelegant steps, they reach the Portrait Hole. Ron rests his hand against the mahogany panel in exhaustion.
"Leaping Lizards," croaks Ron. The Fat Lady shakes her head, unfazed—it's those two after all—and swings forward.
It's approaching curfew, so Ginny's not surprised to see the common room nearly empty save for a few third years. Her gaze runs across the space; she recognizes no one. They, though, look at Harry with stars in their eyes.
Ron glares daggers. "What are you lot staring at?"
They crane their necks back down to their books.
Spotting an unused sofa in the corner, Ginny nudges Ron. Together, they settle Harry down onto the lounge. She thinks of calling Hermione, but Ron tells her he doesn't want to disturb her sleep. It's a testament to their unspoken truce that she doesn't take the mickey out of him.
"Leaping Lizards," Harry chortles. He yanks his glasses and throws them across the rug drunkenly. Ginny snorts and reaches for them. "Dudley had a pet lizard once. Wouldn't let me play with it. Had lots of pets, but I couldn't have a single one."
Harry laughs, but Ginny and Ron eye each other carefully. She makes a mental note to ask Fred and George about the consequences of using U-No-Poo on Muggles.
"This potion seems stronger if he's freely talking about…" Ron struggles, hands gesturing vaguely, "His past. I'll go ask Slughorn for a bezoar. Bloody flashbacks." He shudders.
"I'll watch him," Ginny says, noticing two third year girls shifting their way. No doubt seeking to take advantage of the Chosen One's unusually happy mood.
"Good idea."
"No," Harry yelps, fingers dancing across his stomach. Was he tickling himself? "Don't leave me with her."
Ginny flinches.
"I understand the sentiment," Ron pats Harry on the shoulder. "But I'll be back in a bit."
"You don't understand." Harry pushes himself up to eye-level. His glasses are skewed comically against the crook of his nose. "Being in a room with her is really, really hard."
Ron frowns, confusion lining his face. Ginny can't take it anymore. "Just go, Ron! He'll just have to learn to put up with me."
Ron shrugs, spreads a blanket across Harry ("settle down, you nutter"), and leaves.
Harry stops his laughter enough to pout. "You're mad at me."
She huffs. Truth is, she's not mad; she's hurt. She knows she's no Hermione or Ron, but there was a part of her that thought…they were friends. That he enjoyed her company. She thinks of Quidditch games in backyards, of jokes shared over breakfast eggs, of laughing uncontrollably under hot suns, and feels at a loss.
"Why would I be?" Ginny retorts, sitting on the edge of a table. "You only implied you were disgusted by my very presence."
"That's not what I—" Harry cuts off as the evening candles dim. Curfew. "Your hair looks less orange in this light."
She blinks. "Your skin looks more pasty."
"Pasty?"
"Like a snowman's arse. Or Binn's."
He falls back against the cushions. "See?" Harry snuggles into the sofa's ratty pillow. Merlin, it's strange to see him like this. "You're so witty. How do you not know?"
"Oh, I do."
He shakes his head profusely.
"No." The blanket slips from his shoulders. Harry tosses it aside with a petulant scowl. "That's not what I—"
"Harry," Ginny smiles. She can't stay mad at him, not now. "The more you talk, the less anyone knows what you mean."
Harry's giggles startle the hush of the common room. The novelty seems to have worn off for their audience: Ginny notes a few glares cast their way and flings one back. A quill bottle falls and splatters its contents all over the carpet. Ink stains on Harry's hands make it clear who the culprit is.
"Get yourself together, will you?"
"I—I physically can't," he wheezes, face almost blue. "Everything is so funny."
"The problem of the century," Ginny drawls as she waves her wand and cleans up the mess.
She bends to pick up the blanket before rustling it in the air for good measure. How long does it take to ask Slughorn a simple question, Ron?
Just as she's draping it over his body, Harry shakes his head again. Ginny lets out another huff. "What's it now?"
"I like my toes warm and my chest cold." Harry's lips purse in worry. "Or is it the opposite?"
She laughs. "While you're making this life-altering decision, I should go check up on Ron." Ginny pats his shoulder. "Maybe he got hit with a charm too, and you'll both wake up in wedding gowns tomorrow."
She makes it two steps before something yanks her back. "Ow—! Bleeding tits, Harry!"
Her protests skitter to a stop. His overly optimistic smile still plasters his lips, but his green gaze burns bright. She feels it caress her, slowly, gently. "Ginny."
She forces herself to look away.
Circling the bones of her wrist, Harry's fingers brush around to her palm and flatten against hers. If Ginny shifts just the slightest bit, their hands would be intertwined.
It's the cheering charm, she knows this. So why does her brain feel like it's sludging through water? No, Ginny convinces herself, it has to be. She's caught him cuddling with her brother, for Merlin's sake. This fragile show of affection could be for anyone.
Don't leave me with her.
She swallows.
But when she flicks her eyes to meet his, the heat in his touch tells her differently.
"You really do smell nice…like flowers," Harry whispers. "I've wanted to ask Neville which type…" He frowns, as if breaking through fog. "But that would mean he'd have to smell you too."
She can't make sense of any of it. "Harry—?"
His fingers fill in the gaps between hers.
"No one makes me laugh harder than you, Gin."
His words are urgent, purposeful. Wanting her to see.
Their hands are loose in their hold, but she's never been more stable.
A breakout of giggles tears their moment to shreds. Clutching his torso, Harry's reduced to a blithering mess once more. But it doesn't matter; the damage is done.
Her breaths come out shuttered, broken. Her palms are clammy, but she doesn't dare let go.
The sound of the Portrait Hole whooshing open startles a jump from her. Releasing Harry's fingers one by one ("come back"), she turns to see Ron with another visitor.
Merlin's balls.
How does one touch, one bloody glance from Harry make her forget all about—
"Dean. Hi."
Her boyfriend nods his head. By the lack of his reaction, Ginny can tell he didn't see anything. Guilt bubbles in her chest at the thought.
"Hey," he says curtly. "Went to notify McGonagall on all this." He crosses his arms, aloof.
Ginny snorts. She knows they had tension since their fight before Christmas, but this is too much. She directs her attention to Ron instead. "Got it?"
"Yeah," Ron shakes the bezoar to demonstrate. Ignoring Harry's restless movements, Ron yanks his hair back. He shoves the bezoar down his throat.
Harry swallows and blinks rapidly. Like a snapped twig, a scowl twists it way across his lips: "I'm never fucking laughing again."
Ron laughs. "Good to have you back, mate."
Harry grunts before wincing, no doubt in pain.
He pulls off his glasses and rubs the tension between his eyes.
At seeing him perform acts so Harry, Ginny's insides clench. She can't breathe. She can't be here. "I–I should go sleep now. I'm glad you're better."
Harry's eyes catch hers. Yearning, longing–it's all there. How was she too thick to see it? "Ginny."
"Dean," she blurts out and immediately regrets it. Harry's flinch is utterly heartbreaking. "We'll talk later, yeah?"
Dean's eyes soften. "Yeah, of course." There's that boiling guilt again.
She's just about to make her escape when Harry suddenly stands. "Did I do something wrong?"
His voice croaks bleakly. Innocently. He doesn't remember.
"Nothing," she says, voice scarily calm. "You did nothing wrong."
Against her house values, she flees like a coward. Sprinting up the stairs, she flings her dormitory door open and slides the lock in place.
Her back slumps down the door.
She has a boyfriend, for Merlin's sake. She's very much over this. Two years over this, in fact.
Ginny shakes her head.
Hermione tried telling her. "He fancies you, can't you see?" At the time, she couldn't. Going through the first heartbreak was enough. She couldn't—can't risk another. She needs something safe.
She thinks of Dean drawing a thoughtful doodle, Dean tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Dean slanting his lips over hers. She tries to piece these moments together, but they drift, scattered like rain.
Large palms, flickering pulses, and uninhibited smiles storm her vision instead. No one makes me laugh harder than you.
Romilda was right; Harry does like funny girls.
Except she doesn't need a cheering charm to draw his attention apparently.
She curses. "You have shite timing, Potter."
It doesn't matter, she lies to herself. He missed his chance long ago.