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The worn wooden boardwalk was dusted with a thin coat of sand, soggy newspapers, and whatever treasures the seabirds happened to drop on their way back to their perches.
Below, the sea lapped against the stone wall, waves slapping and hissing as they soaked the already damp planks.
For a seaside town, it wasn’t the sort of view that appeared on postcards. The paint on the railings had long since begun to peel in curling strips, revealing older layers of color beneath—white, then a stubborn yellow-and-green pattern that must have been fashionable decades ago. Trash bins leaned slightly to one side where the boards had warped with years of salt and weather, and the scent of fish from the docks carried easily on the wind, sharp and briny and impossible to ignore.
But Ginny liked it precisely because of that. It was a place that felt lived in.
Down the boardwalk, shop doors stood open to the mild air, bells chiming every few minutes as people wandered in and out with paper-wrapped sweets, buckets of bait, or armfuls of striped beach towels. A woman in a wide straw hat argued cheerfully with the man at the bait counter about the price of squid. Two fishermen hauled a crate off a cart, their boots leaving damp half-moons across the planks. Somewhere nearby, a radio crackled out a song that kept drifting in and out with the wind.
Beyond the wall, fishing boats rocked lazily in the harbor, their masts creaking and knocking together in an uneven rhythm. Ropes strained softly against their knots. Gulls circled overhead with sharp, impatient cries, occasionally diving toward the water or toward an unwatched basket of chips.
Closer to shore, children tore through the boardwalk in loose, chaotic packs, shrieking with laughter as they chased one another between benches and the ice cream stand. One boy slipped in the sand and went down hard, only to pop back up again laughing, already sprinting after the others.
She set up her easel and unfolded her watercolors, determined to finish the scene she had started a few days earlier: a girl shoving her older brother off a rock near the ice cream stand.
Ginny was fairly certain she had captured the girl’s fierce determination in all its glory—the set of her shoulders, the triumphant lean forward—but the brother’s tears still weren’t coming through on the page.
None of it was orderly. None of it was composed.
And yet Ginny thought it was far more beautiful than the polished seaside scenes people liked to hang in their living rooms—those neat paintings with their pristine beaches, their perfectly folded sails, their sunsets that looked as though someone had carefully blended them with a palette knife.
Those places always felt empty to her.
Beauty, as far as Ginny was concerned, wasn’t something you arranged and preserved like a display window. It was something that happened. It lived in crooked railings worn smooth by a thousand hands, in the uneven rhythm of boats knocking against the harbor, in the burst of laughter when someone inevitably fell into the water.
If you could only find beauty in perfectly curated aesthetics, then you didn’t understand what made life beautiful to begin with.
The real moments were messy. Loud. A little ridiculous.
And they never stayed still long enough to make painting them easy.
"Ah, Ginny."
The familiar warm, booming voice pulled her from her concentration.
She looked up and smiled. "Hagrid. How are you?"
Hagrid adjusted the coil of rope slung over one shoulder and grinned.
"Can't complain. Lucky, really, gettin' ter work outside every day."
He wandered closer to her easel, studying the unfinished painting with surprising care.
"I like the way yeh paint the water," he said. "Never thought about it bein' more than one color. Reckon I'd just paint it blue. But yeh've got green... an' yellow... even brown in there."
Ginny smiled, rinsing her brush in the jar beside her. "Nothing's ever simple if you look at it long enough."
Hagrid nodded thoughtfully. "That's true, that is."
He gave the painting one last appreciative look before hitching the rope higher on his shoulder.
"Well, I'd best get back ter the boat. Can't wait ter see it when it's finished."
Then he lumbered off toward the docks.
Ginny lost herself in the painting again. A quiet clearing of someone's throat broke her concentration.
She smiled without looking up. "I know, Kingsley."
It had become something of a ritual. Every week Kingsley Shacklebolt would remind her that she technically needed a permit to occupy quite so much space along the boardwalk and another to sell her paintings. Every week, Ginny would promise she already had the paperwork and would file it with the council immediately.
Every week, Kingsley would tell her he was glad to hear it.
Every week, they both knew she was lying.
Then they'd wish each other a pleasant afternoon and repeat the exact same conversation seven days later.
Kingsley was a good sort, especially for a police officer.
Still smiling, Ginny finally looked up.
Instead of Kingsley's familiar bald head, she found herself staring at a young man with incredibly messy black hair and round glasses. His hands were shoved into the pockets of a faded denim jacket as he studied the paintings lined against her easels with remarkable intensity.
He couldn't have been much older than she was.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted from one canvas to the next before returning to her, the corner of his mouth curling into an amused smile.
"Yeah," he said. "I'd like to know why I'm in all your paintings."
Ginny frowned and glanced at the pieces she'd arranged along the boardwalk for sale. Harbor scenes. Fishing boats. Tourists wandering the shops. Children playing on the beach.
Then she looked back at the stranger.
"I've never seen you before."
"Really?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious. "Then are you saying someone else painted me into them?"
He stepped toward the nearest canvas and pointed.
There, in the background of a fisherman unloading the morning's catch, stood a dark-haired man carrying a coil of rope over one shoulder.
Ginny blinked.
He moved to the next painting. Behind a family building an elaborate sandcastle, the same man crossed the beach with a wooden crate balanced against his hip.
Another canvas.
The fish-and-chip shop dominated the scene, sunlight glinting off its windows. Through the painted glass, behind the counter, was that same messy-haired man serving customers.
Ginny stared from painting to painting, a chill prickling the back of her neck. She had painted every one of them herself. She remembered the afternoons spent mixing colors, sketching compositions, fussing over tiny details.
She didn't remember painting him.
"You work at the fish-and-chip shop?" she asked, grasping for the most reasonable explanation.
The man chuckled and shook his head.
"I thought artists were supposed to be observant," he called as he turned and strolled away.
Ginny watched him disappear into the crowd.
When she looked back at the paintings, he was still there—in every one of them.
She tried to pick up her brush again, but her concentration was gone. Every time she looked at a canvas, her eyes went straight to the dark-haired stranger she'd somehow painted over and over without ever noticing. By early afternoon she gave up entirely, packed away her easels and paints, and marched toward the fish-and-chip shop, determined to find out who he was.
The little shop looked as though it had been frozen in time sometime around 1957. Mint-green tiles climbed halfway up the walls, their glossy surfaces chipped with age. A hand-painted mermaid on the front window had faded beneath decades of sun and salt air, patches of blue and gold paint flaking away like old scales. Behind the counter, an old blackboard menu listed exactly three things: cod and chips, haddock and chips, and stewed eels. No chicken strips. No curry sauce. No vegetarian sausages. No trendy gourmet options. Just fish, chips, mushy peas, and the unwavering confidence that nothing else was necessary.
The air was thick with the comforting smell of hot oil, malt vinegar, and sea salt, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes long after you'd left.
Behind the counter stood a woman with dark auburn hair tied back in a loose ponytail. She balanced a pencil behind one ear while jotting down an order with one hand and punching numbers into the old brass cash register with the other. She looked up as the bell over the door jingled.
"Hello!" she said with a bright smile. Her vivid green eyes were impossible to miss. "Dining in or takeaway?"
"Actually..." Ginny stepped closer to the counter. "I'm looking for a man."
The woman's grin widened. "I'm afraid that's not on the menu. How about some battered cod instead? I promise it's far more reliable."
Despite herself, Ginny laughed.
"He has messy black hair, round glasses..." She gestured vaguely. "About this tall."
She held her hand a few inches above her own head.
The woman tilted her head. "Do you mean someone my age, or someone yours?"
"My age."
"Oh! Harry." She nodded toward the door. "You just missed him."
"So he does work here?"
"Sometimes. He helps out when we're busy."
Ginny felt a flicker of relief. "What does he do when he's not helping here?"
"He's a university student in the city."
The relief vanished as quickly as it had come. "So... he's gone back already?"
"Oh, goodness, no." The woman waved away the thought. "I just didn't need the extra pair of hands once the lunchtime tourist rush died down. He's probably in the park playing a pickup football match or wandering down by the harbor."
Ginny let out a quiet breath.
"Right. Thank you."
"You're welcome." The woman smiled knowingly. "If you do catch him, tell him his mother says he's still on rubbish duty tonight."
Ginny nodded, murmured a thanks, and stepped back outside into the fresh sea air.
Leaving the harbor behind, she wandered up one of the narrow cobbled streets that climbed away from the waterfront. It opened onto the village green across from the little stone library, where locals gathered in the evenings and on weekends to picnic, walk their dogs, or kick a football around while children chased each other through the grass.
There he was.
Harry.
He balanced a football effortlessly on the top of his foot before flicking it into the air. The ball bounced from one knee to the other, then onto his shoulder before he deftly volleyed it toward a blond, round-faced young man waiting several yards away.
His friend swung a foot at it, caught his untied shoelace instead, and promptly stumbled onto the grass. Harry burst out laughing, the sound carrying easily across the square. He jogged over and offered a hand.
"Easy there, Nev," he said, pulling him upright. "You all right?"
His friend brushed grass from his jeans and gave an embarrassed grin. "Yeah. Just forgot to tie my laces."
"I noticed."
They resumed their game, the ball sailing lazily back and forth between them.
Ginny lingered by the fence, suddenly feeling ridiculous.
What exactly had she expected to accomplish by coming here? Walk up to a complete stranger in the middle of a football match and explain that she'd accidentally painted him into half a dozen seaside landscapes? Ask him how he'd managed to appear in artwork she'd created from memory?
She tightened her grip on the handle of the rolling case that held her paints and canvases.
This was absurd.
She turned toward the bus stop.
"Hey!" The voice made her stop. "You decided to stalk me in real life now?"
She looked back.
Harry had broken away from the game and was jogging toward her, a teasing grin already spreading across his face. He slowed as he reached the green metal fence separating the village green from the pavement and leaned his forearms across the top rail.
"So," he said, raising an eyebrow. Ginny noticed, now that he was closer, that he had the same striking green eyes as the woman in the chip shop. "Should I be flattered, or should I start worrying?"
"I wasn't stalking you," Ginny said a little too quickly. "I was just... heading to my bus."
"Got it." His grin suggested he didn't believe her for a second.
An awkward silence settled between them.
"You're new here, aren't you?" Ginny asked, searching desperately for something normal to say. "An older man named Tom used to own the fish-and-chip shop."
"My parents bought it a few months ago." Harry nodded. "Tom decided he'd had enough of standing over a fryer for forty years and retired. Last I heard, he's living with his granddaughter and spoiling his great-grandkids."
Ginny shifted the handle of her rolling case. "I really do have a bus to catch."
"Fair enough."
She had taken only a couple of steps when his voice called after her. "I'm Harry, by the way."
She turned to see him smiling at her. "If I'm going to keep appearing in your paintings, you should probably know my name."
A smile tugged at her lips despite herself. "I'm Ginny."
"See you around, Ginny."
She gave a small wave before turning toward the bus stop.
The next morning dawned grey and drizzly, a steady rain sweeping in from the sea. It meant there would be no painting along the harbor and no displaying her work on the boardwalk, but Ginny didn't mind too much. Rainy days usually meant spending the afternoon at Luna's shop.
Tucked between the bakery and an antique bookshop, Luna's little store was impossible to miss. Strings of shells and polished sea glass chimed softly in the doorway, colorful scarves billowed from the ceiling like battered sails, and every available shelf overflowed with crystals, driftwood sculptures, handcrafted jewelry, and tiny glass bottles of remedies promising everything from better sleep to improved digestion—all lovingly made with ingredients Luna had gathered from the shoreline. Tourists adored the place, even if they rarely understood that most of what Luna sold had no actual health benefits at all.
Luna never charged Ginny for the corner by the front window where she displayed a handful of paintings. Whenever the weather kept her indoors, Ginny would come inside, paint in the small, cramped shop, and gossip with her friend.
Luna looked up from arranging a basket of polished stones.
"Your skin's looking a little pink today," she observed cheerfully. "Would you like to try my new sea fennel and kelp scrub? It's supposed to even out your complexion."
"I'm a ginger, Luna," Ginny replied, hanging her raincoat by the door. "My complexion is naturally a little pink."
"Yes, but this would make it an intentional pink."
Ginny hesitated, knowing full well the risks that came with Luna’s homemade treatments but not fully wanting to offend her friend. "I'll pass."
"A shame. I did test it on three people, you know."
"Only?"
"Well, two people and a sheep."
Ginny decided not to ask questions about Luna’s experiments anymore. Instead, she wandered over to a display of handmade jewelry, lifting a pair of earrings fashioned from tiny fossilized starfish.
"Did you know Tom sold the fish-and-chip shop?" she asked.
Luna nodded without looking up. "To the Potters."
"So you already knew."
"I know most things that happen in the village." She straightened a row of seashell candles with painstaking precision. "People always tell the shopkeeper their secrets."
Ginny settled into her corner by the window, setting out her paints and arranging her brushes in neat rows. She fussed with the supplies for a moment before asking, as casually as she could manage,
"So... have you met the Potters' son?"
Luna considered the question.
"I'm not sure son is the right word."
Ginny looked up.
"I think he's a clone of Mr. Potter who was raised as their child."
Ginny blinked.
"...What?"
"They're practically identical."
"I somehow doubt Mr. Potter cloned himself."
Luna gave an unconcerned shrug.
"You haven't seen them standing next to each other yet."
Ginny snorted.
"How did I not even realize the fish-and-chip shop had changed owners? I know everyone in this village."
"You've been away a lot."
"I have?"
"You spent a couple of weeks in France visiting Bill. Then you went to Romania to see Charlie. Then you helped Ron move into his new flat with his girlfriend."
Ginny groaned. "I have too many brothers. How am I supposed to keep up with what's happening in my own hometown when they all insist on requiring my attention?"
"You could ask Mr. Potter how he made the clone," Luna suggested. "Then you could send your own clone to visit your brothers instead."
"I don't think human cloning is the answer."
"It usually isn't."
Ginny shook her head softly and reached for a fresh canvas. After a moment, she spoke again.
"Have you ever created something without realizing what you were making until it was finished?"
"Oh, constantly." Luna didn't even look up from the wind chimes she was untangling. "Especially after I've had my mushroom tea."
Ginny smiled to herself. Asking Luna for practical advice about the mysterious Harry Potter had clearly been a mistake.
Shaking her head, she dipped her brush into blue paint and began sketching the outline of a seagull perched on one of the harbor pilings.
A few days later the rain finally gave way to sunshine, and Ginny happily moved her easel back onto the boardwalk. Much as she adored Luna, several consecutive days in the tiny shop had been enough. It was good to be outside again, the sea breeze tugging at her hair as she painted families strolling the promenade and children darting across the beach below.
"You've put me in more of your paintings."
Ginny glanced over her shoulder.
Harry stood against the railing, wild black hair ruffled by the wind, a crooked smile playing at his lips. In one hand he carried a white takeaway box already spotted with grease.
"Are you watching me?" she asked.
"You were watching me first."
"Only accidentally," Ginny protested. "I paint whatever's happening around me. It's hardly my fault you keep wandering into the scenery."
"So that's your job?" Harry nodded toward the easel. "You paint."
"That's right."
"And people buy them?"
"Occasionally."
He studied the half-finished canvas. “I like them; you are really good. I hope you sell more.”
A smile crept onto her face. "Thank you."
"I've noticed you never seem to take a break."
She folded her arms. "So you've been watching me."
He had the decency to look slightly sheepish. "Maybe a little."
He lifted the takeaway box. "Fancy some lunch?"
"You brought me lunch?"
"I brought lunch. Whether you get any depends entirely on whether you sit down with me." He shrugged. "Occupational hazard of having parents who own a fish-and-chip shop. They keep feeding me."
As if on cue, Ginny's stomach rumbled.
Harry grinned. "I'll take that as a yes."
He led her to a weathered wooden bench overlooking the harbor. The gulls wheeled overhead while the tide rolled lazily against the stone quay.
"I thought," Harry said, opening the box between them, "it might be nice to actually talk instead of staring at each other from opposite ends of the promenade."
"You've been staring," Ginny corrected. "I barely noticed you until you interrupted me."
Harry laughed. "Your paintings suggest otherwise."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a smile.
For a while they ate in comfortable silence, sharing flaky cod, thick-cut chips, and far too many packets of malt vinegar.
"So," Ginny said at last, "do you like it here?"
"Yeah." Harry looked out across the water. "It's different. Quieter than I'm used to. I'll be heading back to university in a few weeks, though."
"The blond guy you were playing football with..."
"Neville?"
Ginny nodded.
"His parents and my dad used to work together. He's staying here for the summer too. We're both trying to earn a bit of money before term starts."
"What are you studying?"
"Criminology."
She raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't expecting that."
Harry laughed. "My dad was a detective."
"I thought your dad fried fish."
"He does now." Harry took another bite of fish. "He was forced to retire last year after he was injured on the job. The doctors said he needed a complete change of pace, so Mum started looking for somewhere by the sea. She found the fish-and-chip shop for sale, they fell in love with the village, and... here we are."
Ginny looked toward the little shop on the harbor, then back at Harry. "So your whole family's starting over."
He nodded. "Pretty much."
For a moment neither of them spoke. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries carrying across the harbor as waves lapped rhythmically against the stone quay.
Harry broke the silence.
"What about you? Have you got family here?"
"I grew up here." Ginny smiled. "Mum and Dad still live in the village. Three of my brothers are nearby, and the other three are scattered elsewhere."
Harry nearly choked on a chip.
"Six brothers?"
"All older."
He gave a low whistle. Ginny laughed.
"You ever think about leaving?" he asked.
She considered the question.
"Not really. I like the sea too much." She looked out across the water, sunlight dancing on the waves. "Whenever I'm away for too long, I start missing it."
"I can see the appeal."
When she looked back at him, though, Harry wasn't watching the water. "So, I'm still getting to know the village."
"You've been here, what, three months?"
"Long enough to know the fish is excellent."
Ginny rolled her eyes.
"But not long enough to know where the locals actually spend their time." He shrugged. "Would you mind showing me around sometime? Not the places tourists end up—the places that actually matter."
She tilted her head. "I thought you'd be gone after university. Doesn't a criminology degree have better prospects than a tiny fishing village?"
"It probably does." Harry smiled. "But my parents are here now. I expect I'll keep finding reasons to come back."
"All right," she said. "Tomorrow evening?"
Harry's face brightened. "Perfect."
They stood, brushing crumbs from their clothes.
As Harry started back toward the fish-and-chip shop, he glanced over his shoulder.
"It's a date." He punctuated it with a quick wink before continuing down the promenade.
Ginny stood rooted to the spot as she watched him disappear into the afternoon crowd, then let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Whether he'd meant it as a joke or not, she could already feel the warmth spreading across her cheeks.
The following evening arrived far sooner than Ginny had expected.
She stood outside the fish-and-chip shop beside her rolling case of paints and canvases, feeling faintly ridiculous. It hadn't occurred to her until she'd left home that bringing an entire mobile art studio might not be the best choice if this really was...
Was it a date?
She glanced down at her paint-splattered jeans and well-worn trainers.
Maybe she should have changed.
Before she could dwell on it any longer, Harry appeared, smiling as though he'd been looking forward to seeing her.
"Ready?"
"I think so."
His eyes fell to the large rolling case. "Would you like to leave your art supplies at ours while we wander around?"
Ginny hesitated. "I don't want to be a bother."
"Don't be daft." He reached for the handle. "Come on."
He led her through the side entrance of the shop and into the storeroom.
Shelves lined the walls, stacked with sacks of potatoes, crates of onions, tins of mushy peas, and bottles of vinegar.
A tall man with dark hair streaked aned casually against one of the shelves, arms folded, chatting to another man who was crouched on the floor with a clipboard, counting boxes of frozen cod.
Ginny blinked.
The second man looked so remarkably like Harry that, for one absurd moment, Luna's theory about cloning resurfaced in her mind.
Messy black hair. Glasses. Tall, lean build.
He was simply older.
"This is still the strangest thing I've ever seen," the dark-haired man was saying. "James Potter, professional menace, voluntarily counting potatoes in a seaside village."
Without looking up from his clipboard, James replied, "It's surprisingly therapeutic."
"You've changed."
"I've matured."
"You've started inventorying root vegetables."
James looked up with a grin. "I've matured."
The other man snorted. "According to my mother, you never had a sensible bone in your body."
He caught sight of Harry. "Oh, hello, Harry."
"Hi, Sirius."
Harry wheeled Ginny's case into an empty corner. "We're just dropping this off. We'll be out for a while."
James stood, setting the clipboard aside.
"Hello there." He smiled warmly at Ginny and held out a flour-dusted hand. "I'm James."
Before Ginny could answer, Harry gently caught her wrist.
"And we're leaving."
"Oh, come on," Sirius protested. "You're not even going to introduce us to the pretty girl?"
Harry sighed with theatrical resignation. "This is Ginny."
"It's lovely to meet you," James said.
"You too."
Sirius grinned. "Excellent. Now we can embarrass Harry properly when he gets home."
"Dad," Harry groaned.
James looked entirely unapologetic. "What? I'm being welcoming."
"You've known her for six seconds."
"And she's already making a good impression."
Harry shook his head, laughing despite himself. "We're going."
"Have fun!" James called after them.
"And don't let him bore you with facts about criminal procedure," Sirius added.
"I won't!" Harry shouted back as he ushered Ginny through the door.
A moment later they were back on the promenade, the salty breeze replacing the warm smell of frying fish.
Ginny smiled.
"Your dad seems nice."
"He is." Harry shoved his hands into his pockets as they strolled along the harbor. "He genuinely likes people. That's what made him such a good detective."
"And Sirius?"
Harry laughed.
"Sirius just enjoys winding everyone up."
"I noticed."
"He's basically family. He's been my parents' best friend since they were teenagers." Harry smiled to himself. "Still lives in London, though."
"What about your dad?"
"He actually grew up in the countryside. One of those ridiculously picturesque English villages with thatched cottages, flower boxes, and ducks wandering across the road like they own the place."
Ginny nodded, "I know exactly the sort."
"He always wanted to leave the city and get back to somewhere smaller. Police work kept him in London a lot longer than he planned."
"So in a strange way, getting injured gave him the chance to do what he'd always wanted."
Harry nodded thoughtfully.
"I suppose it did."
"And Sirius? What's he do?"
"He's a solicitor."
Ginny looked at him in surprise.
"So your dad was a detective and his best friend prosecutes people?"
Harry grinned. "Actually, Sirius mostly defended them."
"That sounds like they should have been enemies."
"They argue about cases all the time." Harry laughed. "Mum says listening to them debate over dinner was like living with a courtroom."
"And your mum? What did she do before moving here?"
"She was a nurse."
"Do you think she misses it? It sounds like this move was really because of your dad."
Harry shook his head. "I don't think so. Mum's always wanted a slower pace of life too. She says the chip shop lets her take care of people in a different way."
"By feeding them?"
"Exactly."
Ginny smiled. "I'm glad they're happy."
"Me too."
For a moment they walked in companionable silence, the harbor stretching out before them. Then Harry looked down the promenade with an expectant grin.
"So..." He spread his arms dramatically. "Where does my exclusive, locals-only tour begin?"
Ginny took Harry all over the village, proudly showing him the places that had shaped her childhood.
She pointed out the stone steps where she'd shoved Ron during an argument when she was eight, resulting in a broken arm and six weeks of guilt.
"He deserved it," she insisted.
Harry laughed. "I'm sure he tells the story differently."
"He exaggerates."
"I somehow doubt that."
She showed him the little primary school where she'd learned to read, the football pitch where she'd spent countless summer evenings trying to prove she could outrun her brothers, and Luna's delightfully chaotic shop overflowing with remedies of questionable scientific value.
"I bought a bottle that claimed it improved memory," Harry admitted.
"Did it work?"
"I can't remember."
Finally, they wandered beyond the harbor to an old tugboat that had run aground decades earlier. Its rusting hull leaned permanently against the rocks, barnacles clinging to its sides while generations of crabs had claimed it as their kingdom.
"Nobody's ever moved it?" Harry asked.
"Not for about forty years."
"Why not?"
Ginny shrugged.
"It's part of the village now."
The tour wasn't especially dramatic. There were no famous landmarks or breathtaking castles—just ordinary places filled with memories.
Yet Harry listened as though each story mattered. He asked about her brothers, laughed at tales of childhood mischief, and somehow made every familiar corner of the village feel interesting simply because he wanted to know why it mattered to her.
When they reached the cliffs overlooking the sea, Harry stopped. Far below, a handful of teenagers were taking turns hurling themselves into the deep blue water.
"So..." His eyes sparkled mischievously. "Ever jumped?"
"My mum forbade it."
Harry looked at her.
"So you've done it loads of times."
"Obviously."
"I thought so." He looked over the edge, then back at her. "Want to go?"
Ginny grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."
They left their shoes in the sand below and climbed the winding path to the top of the cliffs.
"Ready?" Harry held out his hand.
Ginny slipped her fingers into his.
His hand was warm and comfortably larger than hers, his grip firm without being tight.
"You know," Harry said, peering over the edge, "this feels like a terrible idea."
"It probably is."
"So we're definitely doing it."
She laughed. "On three?"
"One..."
"Two..."
"Three!"
They leapt together.
For a heartbeat there was nothing beneath them but air.
The world dissolved into rushing wind, brilliant sky, and endless dark blue sea spinning together until the water rose to meet them.
They hit the surface with a tremendous splash. Ginny kicked upward, laughing as she broke through the waves, sputtering seawater from her mouth. Harry surfaced beside her a second later, still laughing.
Only then did Ginny realize they were still holding hands. Neither of them seemed in any hurry to let go.
They floated in the gentle swell, laughing whenever a wave splashed into their faces. The sea was cool around them, but the lingering warmth of the summer evening still clung to the air.
"Thanks," Harry said, brushing damp hair out of his eyes. "For showing me around."
"It wasn't exactly a grand tour."
"I enjoyed it all the same."
He drifted a little closer as they treaded water. His glasses, she suddenly realized, were still sitting safely beside his shoes on the beach.
"How can you even see me without your glasses?"
Harry grinned. "I can't."
"You can't?"
"Not very well."
"So you're just guessing where I am?"
"I've got a vague outline."
She laughed. "That's terrible."
"If I want to see you properly," he said, his voice softer now, "you'll have to come a bit closer."
She did.
The water carried them together until they were only inches apart, gently rising and falling with each passing wave. Harry's hand settled lightly at her waist to steady them, and instinctively she rested hers against his shoulder.
She could feel his heartbeat through the soaked fabric of his shirt.
She hadn't known him for long. Just a handful of conversations and one shared lunch.
And of course an evening wandering the village she loved.
And yet...
Harry smiled—that slightly crooked smile that always seemed to arrive a heartbeat before his laugh.
"I think you're still a little blurry," he murmured.
Ginny closed the last few inches between them.
Their kiss was tentative at first, almost questioning.
Then Harry smiled against her lips, and suddenly all the awkwardness melted away.
Another wave lifted them before dropping them gently again, and they laughed into the kiss, instinctively tightening their hold on one another to stay afloat. The sea rocked them like a cradle, cool water lapping at their shoulders as the taste of salt lingered on their lips. Harry pulled back just long enough to catch a breath before leaning in again, his forehead brushing hers, both of them grinning at how impossible it was to kiss while trying not to swallow seawater.
Suspended between the darkening sea and the painted evening sky, treading water felt less like swimming and more like flying.
Ginny had spent years trying to capture fleeting moments on canvas—the exact shade of sunset reflected on the harbor, the way gulls hovered motionless in the wind, the sparkle of sunlight dancing across the waves.
None of it had prepared her for this.
How could paint ever capture the feeling of your heart discovering something before your mind had caught up? Somehow, some hidden part of her had recognized Harry long before she had consciously seen him, quietly weaving him into painting after painting until he could no longer be ignored.
And she'd been right.
He wasn't just handsome. He was curious, funny, kind, endlessly easy to talk to.
He listened to her stories as though they mattered. He wanted to know the village she loved. He'd laughed with her, challenged her, and somehow made familiar streets feel new.
As another gentle swell carried them together, a single tear escaped the corner of Ginny's eye, disappearing unnoticed into the sea.
In only a few weeks, Harry would return to university.
This perfect evening—the salt on their lips, the endless horizon, the warmth of his hand at her waist—would become a memory. She wondered whether she would ever find another moment as breathtaking as this one. Or whether she'd spend the rest of her life trying to paint the feeling, knowing no canvas could ever quite contain it.
Eventually, exhaustion caught up with them.
Still laughing, they waded back to shore where their shoes waited exactly where they'd left them. Harry perched on a rock to dry his feet before slipping his trainers back on, then reached for his glasses. As he settled them onto his nose, he ran a hand through his damp hair, accomplishing very little besides making it stick up in even more impossible directions.
Ginny smiled.
There it was again—that familiar tug in her chest.
In only a few weeks, he'd be gone.
She refused to let that thought steal another minute of the evening.
"I want to show you one more place," she said before she could lose her nerve.
Harry looked up immediately. "Lead the way."
He slipped his hand into hers as naturally as though they'd been walking together for years, giving it a gentle squeeze that filled her with unexpected courage.
Instead of turning back toward the fish-and-chip shop, Ginny led him to the bus stop.
Twenty minutes later they climbed the narrow staircase to the tiny flat she rented above a florist's shop.
Harry stepped inside and looked around with open curiosity.
"I was expecting a dramatic artist's loft," he admitted. "Paint splattered over every wall. Half-finished masterpieces leaning against the furniture."
Ginny laughed. "I'm sorry to disappoint."
The flat consisted of a single room. A narrow bed with a faded floral quilt occupied one corner. Family photographs covered the wall above it, squeezed together wherever there was space. An easel stood beside the window overlooking the sea, while a kitchenette no bigger than a wardrobe filled the opposite wall. One of the windowpanes had been cracked for months, despite repeated promises from the landlord to replace it.
"Maybe one day," she said, "I'll sell a painting for a million pounds and buy the loft."
Harry looked around again. "I like this."
"You do?"
"It's cozy."
"It doesn't even have room for a sofa. If I want to watch television, I have to sit on the bed."
"Like I said..." He smiled. "Cozy."
Ginny crossed the small distance between them.
This time there was no uncertainty.
His hand found the small of her back, drawing her gently closer, while her fingers threaded through his still-damp hair. They lingered there in the quiet little flat, the sounds of the sea drifting through the cracked window, kissing until they were both smiling too much to continue.
Outside, the tide rolled steadily against the shore. Inside, the night settled gently around them, and for a little while the rest of the world seemed impossibly far away. They swam together in a sea of blankets until the warm rays of morning sun woke them up.
And just like that, a new routine quietly took shape.
Each morning Ginny returned to the boardwalk, painting the harbor as she always had. Fishing boats came and went with the tides. Children built sandcastles. Gulls swooped down to steal chips from unsuspecting tourists. The village carried on exactly as it always had—beautiful not because it was polished, but because it wasn't. Its weathered stone cottages, rust-stained railings, peeling paint, and wind-beaten charm spoke of generations who had lived by the sea. Salt, time, and storms had left their marks on every surface, and Ginny loved it all the more for it.
Only now Harry was part of the landscape.
At lunchtime he appeared with a warm parcel of fish and chips tucked beneath his arm, claiming his parents always made too much. In the evenings they wandered the shoreline together, exploring hidden coves and cliff paths, talking until the stars emerged one by one above the sea. Sometimes they swam beneath the moonlight. Sometimes they simply sat on the harbor wall with their feet dangling over the water, sharing stories neither had ever told anyone else.
And on the nights they returned to Ginny's tiny flat, the world beyond its cracked window seemed to disappear. Surrounded by her bedsheets and the distant sound of the tide, they discovered the quiet joy of simply belonging with one another.
Ginny had never known happiness could feel so effortless.
Whenever Harry was helping at the fish-and-chip shop or spending the afternoon with Neville, she worked in secret on a painting she carefully kept turned against the wall whenever he came by.
Summer, however, was never going to last forever.
The morning finally arrived when Harry had to return to university.
"I'll come back as often as I can," he promised. "It's only a train ride. And I'll call every day if you want me to."
"Good," Ginny said, trying to sound lighter than she felt. "I don't want you forgetting me."
They lay together on a blanket overlooking the sea, his fingers absently winding a strand of her red hair as the sunlight turned it to copper.
Harry looked at her as though she had said something impossible. "I could never."
"You still think I'm a strange artist who stalks people through her paintings?" She smiled.
"I never thought that."
"You definitely implied it."
"I implied you had an unusual artistic process."
Ginny laughed.
"I made you something." She reached beside the blanket and handed him a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.
Harry peeled it open carefully.
Inside was a painting in a simple sand-colored frame.
It showed the cliffs beneath a silver moon, the sea shimmering below. In the foreground rested the old tugboat, weathered and rusting where it had lain for decades. It was battered by time, scarred by wind and salt, but it remained exactly where it belonged—quietly enduring, as much a part of the village as the lighthouse or the harbor itself.
Harry studied the painting for a long moment.
"I'm not in this one." His smile gave away the joke.
Ginny shook her head. "I don't need to paint you anymore."
He looked up at her, amused.
"I wanted you to have a little piece of home while you're in the city," she said softly. "Something to remind you that there is something very stubborn waiting for you back here."
She tapped the corner of the frame.
"Something that you left behind on the beach and you're going to have to come back and collect, because no one else will take care of it properly."
Harry's expression softened. He looked back at the painting, his thumb tracing the edge of the sand-colored frame.
"I'll be home soon, Ginny."
"Home?"
He nodded. "It's only university. I'm not disappearing."
She smiled, but couldn't resist teasing him. "No impressive criminology career in the city? No fancy office and important cases?"
"I'm starting to think I might change fields."
"Oh?"
"Maybe something involving maritime crimes."
Ginny laughed. "You don't need a degree to become a pirate."
Harry grinned. "Well, it would save my dad a lot of money if I skipped university and took up piracy, wouldn't it?"
They laughed together, the worry of leaving softened by the certainty that this wasn't an ending.
Then Harry leaned forward and kissed her.
The painting rested safely between them, a small piece of the village captured in wood and paint, while the sea stretched endlessly beyond them—vast, restless, and always leading somewhere new.