Work Text:
He wasn't sure when he'd realized the inequality of their previous relationship.
He, Ron and Hermione had agreed to tell her about the horcruxes—agreed that she and Neville of all people deserved to know—but he hadn't given her much detail about the horcrux hunt beyond that.
Even still, it was more than he knew about her year at Hogwarts.
He knew neither of them was the same person they'd been a year ago in those glorious, happy days.
But they'd agreed to get to know one another again, see if what they had had could be rekindled.
And this wasn't it.
It wasn't that they didn't have conversations, even meaningful ones.
But he had the feeling Ginny was hiding from him.
And that had prompted the realization that she still was. That she always had.
She'd always been chatty about her dormmates and gossip about everyone and quidditch.
But the deeper, more vulnerable parts—those she had never shared with him.
As he hadn't with her, in those days.
He was starting to think as much as those days being out of someone else's life had helped him, it hadn't been good for their relationship.
Ginny did not seem to agree. Her eyes flashed. "What do you want from me, Harry?"
"I want to know you again," he told her. "I want to continue to care about you, love you—"
Now she stepped back, face draining of all colour. "No. You don't—"
"You don't have to tell me everything, Ginny," he pleaded. "I keep stuff to myself too, or between me and Ron and Hermione. But we agreed. We're different now, but we promised we'd try our best again, see if we can rekindle that. And ... you're not doing that."
His voice became quieter towards the end.
"You don't want to get to know me," Ginny said flatly. "You don't want to know the things I went through, all the horrible things I, we all, did to survive."
"Yes, I do!"
"No, you don't, Harry!" She yelled back. "Because you'll blame yourself or get self-righteous and protective—"
"I—" He wasn't sure how to answer this accusation, completely wrong-footed. Harry forced himself to accept the truth of it. "I guess. I might. But I swear I'll try to listen, to understand, without making it about myself."
Which he had a tendency to do, he realized with a grimace.
It looked like the wind had been taken out of her sails, but she gathered herself. "I'm not a delicate thing for you to stash somewhere, Harry," she said quietly. "Or to protect. If we really do this, you'll have to accept that I'm a person. Who wants to be your partner, your equal."
"Gin," he tried hoarsely. "When you were eleven, you fought off a horcrux for months on the end. I barely did it at seventeen with a lot more knowledge and support. I have never doubted that you are at least my equal, if not even my superior."
She actually stepped back now. "You haven't acted like it." Now uncertainty crept into her voice; her gaze was darting frantically.
"I wouldn't have tried this again if I didn't believe that," he said truthfully. "It's dangerous for you to be with me. But God help me, I can't stay away - from you or Ron or Hermione or your family."
She looked like she'd been smacked. "You don't need to," she murmured automatically, but she still looked adrift.
"Ginny?"
"You said my name in the same breath as Ron and Hermione." Her jaw clenched. "You love them."
"Yes," he said puzzled. "I told you, I want to care about you too—"
"But you can't!" Burst out, and she slapped a hand over her mouth.
This, he realized suddenly. This was the nexus of their problems. "Why?" He pressed. "Why wouldn't I love you? Why do you think anything you could say or do would make me care less?"
"Because!" She was trembling now. "The last time I told someone everything, they sucked my soul out!"
Harry couldn't breathe suddenly. Ginny closed her eyes, defeated. "I'm not him," he whispered. It was something he tried to convince himself of day after day, that the horcrux hadn't affected him that much.
"I know that," she said with devastating simplicity. "Obviously you're not. But you're still - I don't know. You're asking me to trust you the same way I trusted him. That you'll stay. That you'll. . ." Her throat bobbed. "Love me," she finished lowly.
He reached for her hand, and to his relief, she let him take it and twine their fingers. "It was easy before," she revealed. "Because I knew there would be an end. I didn't have to let myself in all the way. I could give you bits of me, of happiness, and let it be enough."
Harry felt sick that he'd done this.
"But then I thought you died." Her voice was strangled now. "And I realized I'd given myself to you wholly anyway - that I could live without you. But I don't want to. I love you, Harry. You know that."
He nodded. "But trust is different for you."
"But trust is different for me," she agreed tiredly, and he could suddenly see how much effort it had taken her to say all this.
"Do you want to try?" He asked in a whisper.
She didn't say anything for a long moment that felt like years. "I guess if we want to try again, this is kind of necessary, huh?" She inhaled deeply. "Okay. Yes."
Relief flooded Harry, making him heady. "I'll do better too," he vowed. "Ask you more, tell you more, be more understanding, offer to listen."
"And there's the self-righteousness," she teased, with an undertone of warmth.
And it was then that he knew, that despite this being only the start, despite the long road ahead of them to build a life he desperately wanted together, they would be just fine.