CHAPTER NINETEEN - Safe… And Happy
He said nothing, merely stared at her, so Ginny stepped around him, unconsciously giving him a wide berth so she wasn't in arm's reach and wouldn't accidentally brush up against him. She didn't think she could stand that, not right now. Every inch of her skin felt sensitized, and she had the irrational fear that touching Harry would only hurt.
"Glad you let yourself in," she said, trying to sound light, casual. "I'd certainly have hated for you for you to be kept waiting." Damn it. It simply sounded snide, sarcastic, and she couldn't help but wonder if it was because of the company she'd been keeping. "How long have you been here?"
Harry turned to look at her, his hands shoved in the pockets of his pants, his eyes unreadable. She was suddenly acutely aware of how rumpled her clothes must have looked, how messy her hair was. She could have-and should have-taken the time to cast a tidying spell or two, but she'd sort of been enjoying the free feeling of it, the carelessness of leaving your clothes wrinkled because they'd spent the night on someone else's floor.
"Long enough," he answered cryptically. "I know how much you like to laze about on Sunday mornings, I rather thought I'd catch you."
She couldn't fight the blush, didn't know if she even wanted to or not. His statement was intimate, his innuendo clear. "I had things to do," she answered, pleased for not lying outright. What did it matter to him?
"When?" he asked, taking one hand from his pocket and rubbing it back and forth over his hair, tangling it and making it stand up. "Last night or this morning?" When she merely gaped at him, he shook his head. "Look at your clothes. Your skirt's crooked, for Merlin's sake. Your sweater looks like it took half a carpet with it." He reached for her, his short, slender fingers reaching to pluck a bit of fuzz off her sweater. Clever hands, she thought. He'd always had clever hands.
He'd managed to swipe the piece of carpet debris without even pressing her skin.
"I was in a hurry this morning," Ginny said stiffly, aware she was still telling the truth, to some degree. "Though I thank you for always thinking of what I might have done wrong. It is comforting to see some things do not change."
"Exactly!" Harry burst out, pushing his glasses up on his nose and glaring at her. He stepped toward her and she did not back down, merely stood where she was. "Some things do not change, Ginny. Love, for one of them, doesn't change. I did not change. You changed. You decided to leave. And for what?"
Ginny shook her head, knowing him well enough to know where he would go next. "Don't, Harry. Don't you dare."
"Don't what, Ginny? Say what's right in front of my face because then you might have to admit to it?" He was at his wits' end, his eyes desperate, but there was no love there, she could see that.
Now, she was afraid it was all about territory.
All about ownership.
He wasn't hurt. He was simply selfish.
It should have broken her heart. Instead, it shut part of her down.
"You've never needed me to admit to my guilt before, Harry, you simply always knew." A rush of blood rose to her cheeks and she felt oddly triumphant. There, she thought, feeling heady. I've said it.
"You've never fucked Draco Malfoy before," Harry returned, his cheeks dotted with spots of high, bright color. "Is that what you wanted, then? Someone like him? Some Slytherin again, who would use you again?"
"Stop it!" Ginny screamed, reaching out and pushing him, hoping for a moment that he would trip and fall, stumble and bring himself low. Damn him for ruining this for her. Damn him and damn her for listening to him. "Some Slytherin again, eh?" she shouted, shoving her hands through her hair. "You… you were and are more similar to Tom than Draco Malfoy will ever be." She saw him gasp in a breath as though he'd been punched and she nodded, filled with savage satisfaction. "Don't you remember that, Harry? Those similarities everyone was so keen on bringing up? But I never mentioned it."
She took a deep breath, and though she hated herself for her next words, she needed them. She needed to show him how he had made her feel.
"People thought you were the Heir, you know."
Harry went completely pale and put the heels of his hands to his forehead, pushing them over his hair again. His eyes were bright when he looked at her, and he sighed. "How did it come to this, Ginny?"
"It started coming to this when I knew you didn't love me," Ginny fired back quickly, speaking without thinking, saying what she hadn't even realized she knew. "When you proved you didn't trust me, time and time again."
Harry opened his mouth as though to deny her statement, to disagree with her, but his shoulders slumped, a huffed breath escaped him.
He couldn't do it, Ginny thought, and she felt her own posture sag, her tension turned to weakness. "You can't imagine how stupid I feel," she whispered.
She had spent time, time and effort and a great deal of her own respectability, trying to make certain he would be able to let her go. She had set out to hurt him so he wouldn't miss her, wouldn't pine for her.
If it weren't so bloody stupid, it would have been funny.
"I'd like for you to go," she finally said, feeling more tired than tearful. "You had no business being here, Harry."
Not even when we were together.
"I still care about you," he insisted, frantically trying to save face. She was one of his best friends, for Merlin's sake, and he did love her. He just… didn't know how she expected to be loved, if not like a friend. "I want what's best for you, Ginny. I want you to be safe."
Ginny put her hand to his arm, taking in and letting out a single deep breath. She needed the contact now, needed to know she could do that much. "Why couldn't you just want me to be happy?"
He looked at his shoes, then up at her through his eyelashes.
For him, they had always meant the same thing-safe and happy.
He had never dreamed it was any different for her.
She let her hand slide off his arm, feeling weary and so incredibly ridiculous. How had she spent so much time worrying about it? How had she ever thought he was in love with her?
Harry walked to her door, head down, trying to think of something, anything to say to salvage the vestiges of what they had once been, and coming up only with, "Is he better now?"
Ginny laughed softly and thought of the man who had taken her on a table like an animal, then let her have the opportunity to do whatever she had wanted. But she didn't want to answer that question, so she simply shrugged. When he saw she wasn't going to answer, Harry nodded, opened the door and started out.
"Harry!"
He looked up at her hopefully, and she wondered what, exactly, he wanted from her, what he expected.
"Did you trust me?" she asked, pressing her fingers to hr lips as she waited for his answer.
He looked puzzled, backlit by the white-gray, cloudy morning light, and finally, he said "With what?"
It was answer enough for her.
It was only right, he thought. He told her he owed her, and he hadn't forgotten that.
He didn't forget any debts, either those he owed or those owed him. It was one of the things that had made him a strong businessman.
His tenacity was another one of those things, and he wasn't about to let her have the last word, walking out of his house after telling him she abhorred him. It simply wasn't done like that. It didn't matter if he had a "case" or whatever other foolish rot Pansy had been throwing at him like a stupid mind game, things simply weren't done like that.
Unfinished business made him feel apprehensive.
So it was completely reasonable that he'd gone and bought a book on Wizarding Wares and How to Fix Them-he had to fix her door, after all, he had been the one to break it. That thought came through with just a touch of chest-puffing pride, and he'd thrown the book on the counter and said, "I broke a door" in the tones of a man who had really accomplished something.
He didn't understand why the young witch behind the counter had looked at him so strangely.
And of course, he'd ruined her knickers, as well. Hard to forget that, really, and hard to forget the feel of them beneath his fingertips. Perhaps he'd loitered a bit longer in the witch's wardrobe shop a bit longer than he should have, and perhaps he'd been overthinking it-after all, he hadn't really needed to try and picture her in every single thing they had in the store, but he was trying to get it just right-and perhaps buying her five different sets of lingerie was overkill.
But he could afford it, and it was all repayment.
He was balancing box and book as he walked toward her block of flats, wondering what on earth was wrong with his stomach.
He was going to have to get it looked at.
With his arms full, he couldn't very well knock on her door, so he kicked at the bottom edge. "Open the door, Ginny!" He was nearly shouting and didn't realize it; it simply didn't occur to him that he could have been advertising his presence to half the street.
When she didn't immediately open the door, he sighed and shifted his weight. She had to be home. Where else would she go after leaving his house?
The thought niggled at him, bothered him. Where could she go?
Reflexively-and it was only that he didn't like the idea of her not being there when he wanted to be, not out of worry or jealousy or anything of that nature, because why would he be worried about a Weasley, anyway?-he kicked the door harder, calling her name again.
He heard wood crack and splinter, and the lock, which had seen better days than the ones he'd put it through, gave way.
"Well, bugger," he said, sounding more than a bit miserable.
He'd just have to fix that, too.
He stepped in the door, feeling oddly at ease doing so, and started to call out to her again. Her name died on his lips as he looked to his right and saw her sitting on the divan, her head in her hands, still wearing the clothes in which she'd left his house.
Box and book landed on the entryway floor without a second thought and he'd crossed the room to her in just a few large strides before she had taken her face from her hands.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice harder, more panicked than he'd meant for it to be. He crouched down beside her to better look in her face, and at the wide-eyed look she gave him, he replayed his actions.
Completely nonsensical.
He stood brusquely, taking a step back from the couch. Distance was good. Distance was perfect. There was no need to get close to her, after all. She was just a Weasley. They weren't even friends for Merlin's sake, it wasn't as though he was duty bound to sit beside her and move her hair away from her neck and massage the pale skin there and the tense muscles underneath-
"If you're all right, you need to answer your damned door," he snapped, taking another halting step back.
"What, and take away your excuse to break it?" Ginny asked, scrubbing her hands over her face. She was dry-eyed and had been for a while. She'd had her cry just as soon as Harry had left, but it had been short-lived, more an action of habit than of passion, and she'd needed the stillness in which to think, to think about Harry and to think about herself.
To think about Draco and what she was doing with him.
Trust, she thought, was a start. But it was no more the right thing than concern for her safety had been. It was just another part of a whole she didn't understand, couldn't see.
And then he'd come and kicked in her door like some sort of maniac.
Again.
She looked at the mess he'd made, at the beribboned box and the book that had fallen on its spine and opened to some random page, and she felt something like a sigh building in her chest, some sort of internalized pressure that made her feel like she needed to sigh.
"I brought you something." He couldn't help the testy note in his voice, the petulance, and he retrieved the box, frowning at the corner of it that had gotten mashed in. "Here," he said, thrusting it at her and finally allowing himself to look at her fully.
Her eyes were red-not really bloodshot, just a bit pink-and her face had either been scrubbed or rubbed clean of makeup. She looked tired, but moreover, she looked sad.
She looked as she had when she'd finally gotten her arse off his bathroom floor.
Ginny's eyebrows raised into her hairline, and she fought back a sharp slap of panic. A gift? He'd brought her a gift?
As though reading her mind, Draco reached down and pulled the ribbon off for her impatiently. "It's not a present," he said defensively. "It's just what I said I'd do. I owed you… some things."
He'd had sex with her, for crying out loud, and he couldn't manage to say knickers aloud?
He needed some sleep.
The tightening in his stomach trebled and quadrupled when a corner of her lips turned up and she opened the box. He couldn't stand it, couldn't wait for her to say something, and his mouth spilled out the first thing he really wanted to know.
"It's Potter you're crying over, isn't it?"