Work Text:
Ginny didn't know what she had expected.
If she had expected something to change in the way Harry treated her as a mere afterthought.
If she had expected anything at all.
"He told us to say goodbye for him. And to be careful," Ron added with a stubborn jut of his jaw. Ginny stared at him levelly until colour climbed high in his ears, but he refused to avert his eyes.
Ginny doubted Harry had said any such thing.
She gave the luck potion another look, the golden tint gleaming in the ambient light of the library. She thought about all the things she wanted — things a shot of luck could influence, even in the few hours its effects lasted.
She took it out of Ron's outstretched hand and turned it over once. "Do you think this is a good idea?" she said, looking up at her brother. Ron looked momentarily startled before flushing bright red at what she wasn't asking.
"You aren't going out there without it," he said, nonetheless, final.
Once more, Ginny twirled the potion in her hand. Then she pulled the cork open and tipped it back, looking right at Ron as she did. She felt the change immediately as she swallowed — a sort of giddy weightlessness, as if nothing would ever stop her and everything would work out.
"Okay," Ron exhaled. "You go with Hermione and Luna to keep watch on Snape's office. I'm gonna head up to the Room of Requirement with Neville—"
"No," Ginny snapped, fiercely, jerking up out of her seat. "I'm going with you," she said. And because she'd just drunk the Felix Felicis, Ron didn't have the time to argue, even if he looked unhappy about it.
She didn't remember much about the battle — just impressions of bodies and yells and spells ricocheting off the walls — and then Harry, appearing from nowhere, jinxing the Death Eater she was fighting and ignoring her when she called out after him. Not that it mattered. Because Ginny was distracted when a part of the ceiling collapsed, and she whirled around and screamed, "Ron!"
Afterwards, when everything quieted down, they took the wounded and the dead to the hospital wing. She stared at Bill's mangled, bloody face for a long, sinking moment, huddled close to Ron while Hermione stood on the other side of him, sniffling. After a while, Ginny started out of her trance and slipped into the nearby bathroom, because she was covered in dirt and blood and bruises, and she just — she needed a moment alone.
She clutched the edge of the sink, staring sightlessly at the water rushing down the copper strainer. Everything had been so close tonight, and Ginny didn't think they would've survived if it hadn't been for the luck potion. And a small, horrible, gnawing voice in her head wondered whether things would have turned out differently if Bill had drunk the potion too. Or if none of them had.
She looked up when she heard the door open, and Ron made a surprised noise, stopping momentarily on the threshold. And then, because the Felix was still running through her veins, both of their veins, Ron stepped inside, and the door fell shut with a quiet creak.
Ginny stared at him through the mirror and turned to him thoughtlessly as Ron stopped beside her. He conjured a washcloth and held it under the running water for a moment before shutting off the tap. It was quiet as he wiped gently at the dirt and grazes on Ginny's face, the corners of his mouth turned down unhappily.
Her insides clenched with the sheer nostalgic memory of it — the long summer days of playing outside, just the two of them, sitting on an upturned bucket in the shadow of the house while Ron cleaned the bruises and grazes she'd got with gentle patience before they'd gone back inside.
Her big brother.
It was the Felix, Ginny knew. Otherwise, they didn't do this anymore — not since her first year — but she was too tired, too scared to care.
"You should've gone with Luna and Hermione," Ron said, his voice low and familiar and so full of care behind the rough grumpiness. Ginny leaned her face into his hand, the edge of her mouth almost touching the bare skin of his wrist. She closed her eyes.
"I wanted to stay with you," Ginny said — simple, honest — and that was the Felix too.
She opened her eyes and looked up at Ron. His eyebrows were furrowed, his expression conflicted. They stood, suspended for a moment. Ron's thumb traced her cheekbone over the edge of the towel, almost accidentally, and Ginny felt that simple soft touch shiver down and coil low in her belly. His thumb stopped, quivering, on the right corner of her lips.
And then, it seemed, the Felix ran out.
"Ginny," Ron said, his voice wrecked, a broken whisper. "We can't."
Ginny simply looked at him.
She'd never been as pure or innocent or good as Ron had thought her. And she could and she would.
And Ron's expression twisted, torn and sorry and miserable. "I can't," he said, and that was it.
Ginny closed her eyes, took a sharp, shuddering breath.
"Okay," she said, straining to keep her voice even.
"Okay," she added. And because this was still Ron, her big brother, the one who'd always been her source of comfort ever since her childhood, she stepped right into his arms without thought, and they came tightly around her like always. He bowed his head, his lips pressed firmly to the top of her head.
"Okay," Ginny repeated for the third time, muffled into his chest. Ron smelled of sweat and dirt and magic, and all she could think of was home.
She didn't know how long they stood there, but Ron didn't let go until she was ready. Then she stepped back and cleared her throat.
"I should — go get Harry," she said, and Ron let her, staying behind.
All that grumbling about Michael or Dean or any other boy — and the only one he was willing to let her go for was Harry, Ginny thought as she left, a hysterical urge to cry choking her. But she stomped it down ruthlessly.
She kissed Harry in front of Ron some evenings later — maybe as small, petty revenge or maybe just to commit herself to the idea.
And later still, on the day of Dumbledore's funeral, after Harry told her he couldn't be with her, she couldn't help but smile, twisted and sardonic. She wanted to say, That sounds familiar, but instead she said, "It's for some stupid, noble idea, isn't it?"
And Ginny told him she'd known Harry wouldn't be happy unless he was hunting Voldemort.
She told him that was why she liked him.
It was the truth.
It was the only thing she liked about Harry.
And she told him she'd never really given up on him.
It was the truth, too, she supposed.
Because who else was there.