Chapter Text
Winds of change whirled through the halls of Hogwarts, soothing the battle's intensity into a familiarity that comforted them. They were home again. Most importantly, their home was safe again.
Somewhere near the gray pillars, the stony stairs, or perhaps it was across the crippled, brick wall, Harry thought he'd seen her—in the aftermath, waiting for him like some fallen angel. It was greedy, Harry thought, to claim victory over such a fight and still craving for more. He should've been satisfied, pleased with the fruit of his efforts. It was more simplistic that way.
But easy had never been his forte, and the truth had been nothing but tempting from the moment he stepped foot in that castle. He wasn't used to being selfish, but maybe, just maybe, during the explosion of all things that had made the war possible and what ended it at once, a triptych inside of him that he never knew existed, was unlocked.
It hadn't occured to him that he could possibly want more.
But he truth was indisputable. He had already did set his life on foot—because In the midst of the deaths and anguish, he didn't kiss her.
He did not kiss her.
He did not kiss her.
The embrace he ran toward wasn't hers,
It was Ginny's.
He didn't realize he'd dissociated until someone called his name.
"Alright now, Harry?" Hagrid said near one of the broken, tinted windows. He smiled with a bruised lip, his hand nursing a concussion with a compress the size of a pillow.
"Hagrid," Harry grinned despite it all, barely containing the relief of seeing him, his first teacher, breathing—so, so alive, thank Merlin. A river of relief coursed through his veins.
At the sight of his injury, Harry wilted.
"Your head," he gestured to it, "I'm sorry, Hagrid. I hope it gets better."
"Ah," Hagrid brushed off, resting a foot on the bench before him. The wood crackled under his weight, barely hoisting it up. "Don't worry 'bout me. What's good is that you're alive. Besides, there's more you should pay mind to right now, eh, Harry?"
The half-giant nodded behind him. Near the dusted fireplaces, the Weasleys gathered surrounding a stretcher. It laid on the ground with one body hoisted on it. While Arthur Weasley grabbed three pints of hot tea from the jugs, Mrs. Weasley was hunched over, caressing Fred's cold, lifeless forehead before he was taken to carry. Just beside them and a couple of brothers left over, was Ginny, wearing the haunted look Harry once wore, over her features.
When Ginny caught a glimpse of his shadow, she jolted up, running to hug him as tightly as she could. Harry couldn't help but revel in it, further within her arms.
He was a horrible, terrible person for this—and for once, Harry muted all thoughts of his that said otherwise. Nausea gurgled within his stomach—there was light, and there was darkness; hope, and then truth.
He was reminded of how bitter the latter tasted.
Harry rubbed her back, an anchor to keep both of them from falling apart all over again. She grasped his own, crying into his shoulder. As he let her drench his jacket with tears, Harry saw her father approaching them from the corner of his eye.
"Good on, son," said Arthur, offering a smile that failed to reach his eyes. He gave Harry a pat on the back, squeezing it firmly before walking out of sight. It meant more to him than what words could possibly offer.
"Mister Weasley—" he started, but was immediately met with Molly, giving Harry his own mug of piping hot tea.
"You're here, Harry, dear," the glad embrace was switched from Ginny to her mother, leaving Harry doused in the feeling of being accepted; just as she had all these seven years of knowing him.
His own issues can be dealt with later, alone, like how he had always faced them. Now, he must save the Weasleys once more.
"Thank goodness," she croaked, choking back a sob, "Harry, I just..."
He hugged her tighter, both of them.
"We thought you were done for," gritted Ginny, wrapping her arms protectively around his bicep. "I could kill you if you were truly dead."
He chuckled, though his tone was gentle.
"Can't argue with that, can I?"
Her red hair drowned him—smelling of mint and cherry apples and covered with soot. He couldn't help but cradle her face, his thumb brushing over the freckles on her cheeks. She was so sharp, so fiery and... exciting. If the sword of Godric Gryffindor wasn't willed to him, she would be worthy enough to unearth it from sheer will, Harry believed. But her attention scorched; and not long after, Harry found himself suffocating from its smoke.
"Give me a minute?" he asked of her, and caught the confusion laced between her brows. He squeezed her palms in reassurance.
"I'll be back, Ginny," he grasped her closer. "I won't go away. I promise."
She looked at him so fiercely. Harry couldn't help but distract himself with the specks of dust on her jumper.
"Alright," she said, filled with determination as she let him go. This was grace. This was her mercy for him.
"Take your time."
"I will," Harry said, already disappearing within the swarm. "I'll come back."
He trudged through the seas of dried blood, torn clothes, and thousand-yard stares, all in the name of a familiar face; specifically, one adorned with the most ridiculous radish earrings, and pale, buttery hair that curled along the wisps of a time Harry wished he'd never let go.