Her head was pounding when she woke up. She was unsure of where she was, but the surroundings did seem to be at least vaguely familiar. She had been sleeping on a large, black sofa, covered in a white fleece blanket and she was near a low-burning fire. Everything in the room was rather warm and inviting, and she was comfortable, aside from the pounding in her skull.
Carefully and slowly, she sat up, peering around the room at her surroundings. It took a few moments for everything to register in her head, but she eventually realized that she had spent the night in the Room of Requirement. After that, more details from the previous night had slowly begun to creep into her brain. She had gone out with Draco to a Muggle dance club, and she had gotten drunk. She was able to remember the circumstances by which she ended up in Hogsmeade with Malfoy, but most other details were foggy.
She glanced at the second sofa in the room, half expecting to see Draco sleeping on it. The sofa was vacant, and part of her was disappointed. Still, she was mainly relieved to be alone. She stood up slowly, wrapping the fleece blanket around herself, and exiting the room into the seventh-floor corridor. She made her way into the Gryffindor common room, praying that it was still early and that no one would be awake.
Prayers were not answered. The room was mostly vacant, except for Harry.
Weakly, she attempted to walk through to her dormitory unnoticed, but a cleared throat shattered the fantasy.
"Where were you all night?" he asked, not unkindly or even in an accusatory tone.
Ginny seated herself on the sofa beside Harry, pulling the blanket more tightly around her shivering form. She wanted to play it off like she was cold, which she was, but she also did not want him to see what she was wearing. Yawning, she said, "I spent the night in the Room of Requirement." She did not lie.
"Why?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Because I didn't want to come to the party," she answered. This was not the only reason, of course, but it also wasn't entirely a lie.
"Ginny, I'm sorry," Harry blurted, turning toward Ginny. "I know you want to abstain until marriage, and I'm sorry that I ever tried to push anything on you." He reached out, gently brushing the back of his hand down her cheek. "God, Gin, I love you so much. I don't want to lose you by being stupid. I know in my heart, one day we'll get married and have kids and be happy, and I can wait until then. I promise."
She looked at the floor. "I've heard all of this before, Harry."
"No, Gin. I mean it. I won't put pressure on you. I'll wait for you."
"You got shagged, didn't you?"
This took him by surprise. "What did you say?"
She smiled sadly, still keeping her eyes on the floor and away from Harry. "That's why you're apologizing," she explained. "You don't feel badly for trying to sleep with me. You feel badly because you slept with someone else, don't you?"
He opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it and closed it. His head was bowed low. "Ginny, I'm sorry."
Her heart sank in her chest and she wanted to die. "Fuck you, Potter," she said, tossing the blanket off of herself and marching away to her dormitory, giving him a clear view of exactly what she was wearing beneath it. That was it, she decided. That was the end.
*****
There was something very different about her that day. She was sitting under the same, nearly bare, oak tree on the same ratty old blanket, but something was off. She looked sad, hurt, and his chest began aching in a way that was not entirely comfortable to him. All he could think about was wondering what could have possibly happened in last two days that would have broken her so. It had only been two days, and when he had been near her last, she was happy.
He approached her cautiously, knowing full well how volatile the youngest Weasley was when pressed. She had a reputation for being fierce and having a fast temper. Normally, he didn't hold much stock in what others say, but this was something he had experienced firsthand. In fact, it was her temper and fire and soul that drew him in so deeply. Those traits were simply a part of her, and it made her unique and so close to being perfect.
The chilly Autumn air blew across his face, marring his angel-white skin with the flush of cold. He could see the oak tree that she sat beneath swaying in the wind, and he noticed that she tightened her warm, winter cloak around her body more tightly. His black boots crunched against the leaves, and she looked up as she heard him approach.
"I'm not really in the mood for talking," she said. Her voice wasn't mean or harsh. Rather, it was grief-stricken. She was miserable, and he was able to tell simply by looking at her. She turned her face from him, not allowing him to see her tear-stained cheeks.
But it was too late. He chose to not wait for her invitation to sit, knowing there was a good possibility that it would not come. There was not a lot of room left on the blanket, as her legs were spread to cover the majority of it. He sat half on the blanket, half on the cold ground, and stared at her, hoping that she would speak to him.
Silence washed over them for the longest time. He could hear the wind howling, and he could feel the air grow colder as the sun began to set. The oak tree swayed in the wind again, and a few of the dying leaves fluttered down, falling upon them. One leaf landed in her hair, and he wondered why she did nothing to move it. He reached up, gently pulling the leaf from her hair and then proceeding to run his hand down her cheek, removing her tears.
She sniffled again, this time locking eyes with Draco. Her soft brown eyes were still filled to the brim with tears that were just waiting to fall. She did not speak. Instead, she pulled her legs into herself more closely and fell to her side, landing in his lap. Tears began to fall freely like a waterfall, and she melted into him. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to be comforted by someone who wasn't Harry or Hermione or Ron, but an outsider. Someone who did not know her well, and someone who by all means shouldn't care about her, was holding her flush against his own body, and it felt more right to her than anything had.
Patiently, he waited for her to speak, but her words never came. He knew very little of appropriate ways to deal with a crying woman, but in those moments that they sat beneath that large tree, it no longer mattered. She never told him what happened, never said why she was crying, but somehow he knew that she needed him. He decided that he would be the man she needed; he would hold her and hope that, eventually, she might tell him why she sat there so broken on that November evening.
Carefully and slowly, she sat up, peering around the room at her surroundings. It took a few moments for everything to register in her head, but she eventually realized that she had spent the night in the Room of Requirement. After that, more details from the previous night had slowly begun to creep into her brain. She had gone out with Draco to a Muggle dance club, and she had gotten drunk. She was able to remember the circumstances by which she ended up in Hogsmeade with Malfoy, but most other details were foggy.
She glanced at the second sofa in the room, half expecting to see Draco sleeping on it. The sofa was vacant, and part of her was disappointed. Still, she was mainly relieved to be alone. She stood up slowly, wrapping the fleece blanket around herself, and exiting the room into the seventh-floor corridor. She made her way into the Gryffindor common room, praying that it was still early and that no one would be awake.
Prayers were not answered. The room was mostly vacant, except for Harry.
Weakly, she attempted to walk through to her dormitory unnoticed, but a cleared throat shattered the fantasy.
"Where were you all night?" he asked, not unkindly or even in an accusatory tone.
Ginny seated herself on the sofa beside Harry, pulling the blanket more tightly around her shivering form. She wanted to play it off like she was cold, which she was, but she also did not want him to see what she was wearing. Yawning, she said, "I spent the night in the Room of Requirement." She did not lie.
"Why?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Because I didn't want to come to the party," she answered. This was not the only reason, of course, but it also wasn't entirely a lie.
"Ginny, I'm sorry," Harry blurted, turning toward Ginny. "I know you want to abstain until marriage, and I'm sorry that I ever tried to push anything on you." He reached out, gently brushing the back of his hand down her cheek. "God, Gin, I love you so much. I don't want to lose you by being stupid. I know in my heart, one day we'll get married and have kids and be happy, and I can wait until then. I promise."
She looked at the floor. "I've heard all of this before, Harry."
"No, Gin. I mean it. I won't put pressure on you. I'll wait for you."
"You got shagged, didn't you?"
This took him by surprise. "What did you say?"
She smiled sadly, still keeping her eyes on the floor and away from Harry. "That's why you're apologizing," she explained. "You don't feel badly for trying to sleep with me. You feel badly because you slept with someone else, don't you?"
He opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it and closed it. His head was bowed low. "Ginny, I'm sorry."
Her heart sank in her chest and she wanted to die. "Fuck you, Potter," she said, tossing the blanket off of herself and marching away to her dormitory, giving him a clear view of exactly what she was wearing beneath it. That was it, she decided. That was the end.
There was something very different about her that day. She was sitting under the same, nearly bare, oak tree on the same ratty old blanket, but something was off. She looked sad, hurt, and his chest began aching in a way that was not entirely comfortable to him. All he could think about was wondering what could have possibly happened in last two days that would have broken her so. It had only been two days, and when he had been near her last, she was happy.
He approached her cautiously, knowing full well how volatile the youngest Weasley was when pressed. She had a reputation for being fierce and having a fast temper. Normally, he didn't hold much stock in what others say, but this was something he had experienced firsthand. In fact, it was her temper and fire and soul that drew him in so deeply. Those traits were simply a part of her, and it made her unique and so close to being perfect.
The chilly Autumn air blew across his face, marring his angel-white skin with the flush of cold. He could see the oak tree that she sat beneath swaying in the wind, and he noticed that she tightened her warm, winter cloak around her body more tightly. His black boots crunched against the leaves, and she looked up as she heard him approach.
"I'm not really in the mood for talking," she said. Her voice wasn't mean or harsh. Rather, it was grief-stricken. She was miserable, and he was able to tell simply by looking at her. She turned her face from him, not allowing him to see her tear-stained cheeks.
But it was too late. He chose to not wait for her invitation to sit, knowing there was a good possibility that it would not come. There was not a lot of room left on the blanket, as her legs were spread to cover the majority of it. He sat half on the blanket, half on the cold ground, and stared at her, hoping that she would speak to him.
Silence washed over them for the longest time. He could hear the wind howling, and he could feel the air grow colder as the sun began to set. The oak tree swayed in the wind again, and a few of the dying leaves fluttered down, falling upon them. One leaf landed in her hair, and he wondered why she did nothing to move it. He reached up, gently pulling the leaf from her hair and then proceeding to run his hand down her cheek, removing her tears.
She sniffled again, this time locking eyes with Draco. Her soft brown eyes were still filled to the brim with tears that were just waiting to fall. She did not speak. Instead, she pulled her legs into herself more closely and fell to her side, landing in his lap. Tears began to fall freely like a waterfall, and she melted into him. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to be comforted by someone who wasn't Harry or Hermione or Ron, but an outsider. Someone who did not know her well, and someone who by all means shouldn't care about her, was holding her flush against his own body, and it felt more right to her than anything had.
Patiently, he waited for her to speak, but her words never came. He knew very little of appropriate ways to deal with a crying woman, but in those moments that they sat beneath that large tree, it no longer mattered. She never told him what happened, never said why she was crying, but somehow he knew that she needed him. He decided that he would be the man she needed; he would hold her and hope that, eventually, she might tell him why she sat there so broken on that November evening.
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