Rating:
R
House:
Astronomy Tower
Ships:
Ginny Weasley/Harry Potter
Characters:
Ginny Weasley Harry Potter
Genres:
Romance Angst
Era:
Harry and Classmates During Book Seven
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Order of the Phoenix Half-Blood Prince
Stats:
Published: 06/24/2007
Updated: 06/24/2007
Words: 5,937
Chapters: 1
Hits: 1,502

You Remind Me of a Time When I was Boring

AKissInACrisis

Story Summary:
Ginny Weasley didn't want to be a Healer. bad!Harry/bitter!Ginny. Oneshot.

Chapter 01

Posted:
06/24/2007
Hits:
1,502


Author's Notes: For mariantarielle and pumpkinpasty. Beta'd by senatorsfan_ink and torn_portfolio. Lyrics and title from a Maxïmo Park song, 'Now I'm All Over the Shop'.

You Remind Me of a Time When I was Boring

::

You remind me of a time when I was boring;

I recall a time when you could slip your noose.

~ Maxïmo Park, 'Now I'm All Over the Shop'

::

You didn't want to be a Healer.

But when you're sixteen and the only one left who's underage, everyone you know fighting a war, and you're still not allowed to use your own wand outside school, there's not much to do but essays.

When you're seventeen and it's the summer and you're ready for action, but your closest brother's a bit embarrassed by you, your best female friend's too busy, and your boyfriend's moved on, when the only desire for your presence you're receiving is from a Head Girl letter, it feels nice to go back. Nice to be wanted.

When you're eighteen and waiting for NEWT results, not allowed out, unable to see half your family, pretending to care about your exams because the last two years of your loneliness had to be worth something - when St Mungo's writes to you and offers you an interview, shows respect and gives meaning to your hours of Herbology essays and struggles to maintain the importance of house spirit, it's very difficult to refuse the offer. And when they give you an important job to do, give you a place to stay that isn't a house that's starting to crowd with the ghosts of your brothers - well, suddenly you're wearing green, mixing potions, tying bandages, keeping people alive.

And a year and a half later, you're spending most nights there, running alongside stretchers and shouting orders at younger girls you once helped with their homework. Suddenly they have to order you to go to sleep because you're exhausted because somehow ... somehow you're indispensable.

It's a quiet night, tonight. You're only on watch-duty tonight, though - really, this should have been delegated to a less experienced Trainee, but Lizzie's not turned up for her shift again. Family troubles are suspected.

You sigh, and lift your wand higher, the lumos beam sliding across sleeping faces. Nightly patrols weren't necessary, once - once, a check through the door was adequate.

A lot of things weren't necessary once.

The light from your wand beam passes over Georgina's face, and you are relieved to see that she is sleeping. She has not slept for the last few nights - had to keep coming to you for stronger and stronger draughts of sleeping potion - but tonight it seems to have done the trick. You are relieved you don't have to spend the whole night mixing potions. Of course, you do not blame her for her insomnia.

Feeling the tiny little swell of satisfaction somewhere in your abdomen, you swiftly leave the Orsino Thruston Ward and walk out into Corridor 15. Getting out your wand and muttering the spell, you unlock one of the cupboards and pull out fresh ingredients for a dreamless sleep draught, and some clean linen. You know that one or the other will be needed by the time the night is through.

Placing the folded linen on a side table, you set the ingredients out on your trolley, a silver, metal object carrying the potions you'll need for tonight and tomorrow morning. You reach for a clean flask.

"My, aren't you busy."

You spin around - you have never been good at thinking before acting. Later, you will wonder if you knew who it was: but you will never be able to recall what went through your mind in that split second.

He is standing in the corner of the dim corridor, arms folded, hair and shadows spilling down in a dark mop across his forehead. He is smiling a smile you do not remember. You are aware that you have caught snatches of it, these past few years, but never before have you been granted a view of his pure, unadulterated smirk in all its glory. No, you do not remember it from - from before.

"Harry?"

He continues smiling.

You feel very foolish, all of a sudden, clutching your glass flask, and you turn away to put it down. Resting it on top of the trolley, you wonder what he wants. Without looking up at him, you try again. "Harry?"

"Hey, Ginny."

You do not say anything; you do not move.

"How are you?"

Despite yourself, you look up: he has approached you by a few steps. "Oh ... all right."

He smiles again.

"Harry, why did you come here?"

"Can't old friends drop in and see each other from time to time?"

"I ..." He has stopped, standing close, his hand resting on the bar of the trolley. You are tempted to ask him when the last time the two of you had a conversation as "old friends" was, but you rein in your tongue. You have a deep suspicion, knowing what you know of what he has become since he last paid any attention to you, that he is here purely for his own purposes - and your guess of what they currently stand at is 'playing mind games with Ginny and wasting time.'

You do not have the time, the patience, or the inclination to deal with this. "Harry, I'm at work."

"So I can see." His eyes travel slowly down your lime green robes.

"Harry - you really don't understand. I'm busy, I have ... I really don't have time to -"

"Surely you can take a little time off." His eyes sparkle.

For a second, you think that your breath caught in your throat, but then you dismiss the notion. You probably imagined it. And if you didn't, it was probably residual - left over from something long ago. "Look, Harry, I really do have to get back to -"

"You can't even take five minutes off?" his mouth is incredulous, but his eyes are mocking.

"There are people I need to -"

"Not even five minutes?"

"It's not as easy as that!" you cry. "I'm the only one on this floor -"

"Alright, alright," he says, raising his eyebrows and taking a step back. "I didn't realise it was such a problem."

I bet you didn't, you think.

You turn to re-adjust the potion bottles on the trolley, and are surprised and annoyed with yourself to find that you have to physically restrain yourself from slamming them down on the metal. You are taking this too seriously: he probably came here with the sole purpose of winding you up. It would hardly be out of character. God knows what goes on in his mind nowadays. You just have to ignore him; to take a deep breath and stop yourself from rising to his pathetic little schoolboy bait.

"I have to get back to work, Harry." You grab the trolley's handle, and twist it round so that it is facing away from him.

"God," he says. He leans against the wall and folds his arms. "When did you turn into Hermione?"

"When I got a job," you snap. You hold tight to the trolley's handle and try to calm yourself down. You don't know why you're so jittery - and then, suddenly, the ridiculous truth occurs to you: you're out of practice at keeping your cool around Harry.

Holding tight to the trolley, you start off down the long corridor, wondering if you'll be lucky enough that he'll go away before you find out what he came here for.

He falls into step beside you.

"You shouldn't be here," you say. "You haven't checked in, it's not visiting hours. It's barely even legal."

He shrugs. "Maybe I'm breaking some rules."

You don't look at his face. You're scared of what you'll find.

"What's it like, working here?"

"Difficult. Busy. Work. Why?"

"I never had you down as a medical person."

"Yeah, well, plans change." You speed up your walking.

He chuckles softly, not stumbling in the slightest as he matches your pace evenly.

"I killed a man today."

You stop.

Turning to face him, you spit out, "Harry, I don't care. Death still means something to me, okay? I'm not - I'm not like you." You break off, shaky, stopping yourself from saying more and finishing your speech, and grab your trolley and march away.

You reach the door to Corridor 14, the corridor leading to the main hallway of the fourth floor. You reach out for the door handle, but suddenly, he's managed to slip ahead and is holding it open for you with a smirk. You walk through it, childishly holding your head high and trying to control your anger.

He smiles to himself at your refusal to acknowledge him, and falls into step beside you once more.

You decide to go for the question that's been plaguing you. "What are you doing here?"

He raises his eyebrows. "I could ask you the same, Gin."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not?"

"I work here; it's my job," you say quickly, answering his earlier question. "A job, Harry, an occupation; I know you don't have much experience with those, but -"

"It was your name, once - I wonder what the problem is? Is it a bit too, hmm ... familiar, maybe?"

"Harry, I'm really not in the mood for this."

There is a silence. You can breathe again.

As the quietness stretches out, you consider stopping to patrol the next ward - it is what you're supposed to be doing, after all ... but if you keep going till you get to the main corridor - and the stairs - he might get the point. It occurs to you that you could pop in to the Janus Thickey Ward to see the Longbottoms. It's not strictly one of your wards but it might scare him sufficiently enough to leave you alone ... and then you instantly feel horrible.

Horrible at your lack of guilt. You're going to make a terrible Healer.

You resolve to carry on with your plan of getting him to the stairs, and you speed up, approaching the door as fast as you can without running.

From behind you, he speaks again. "It was him I killed, Ginny. Him."

You freeze.

"He's gone. Dead."

You turn to look at him. For a second, you don't know what to think. It is odd; odd that you are staring into the face of Harry Potter; odd that his man's jaw and his stubble and his glasses should be offset by the 'evening-style glow' that you yourself switched the lights to at six o' clock; odd that standing in this very corridor your fists should be clenched into balls of rage. Suddenly, you know exactly what to think.

"Bullshit," you say calmly. Holding on tightly to the trolley, you walk away. You're not putting up with this.

"It's true!" he shouts after you, and for the first time, he sounds furious. Before you can stop yourself, you've turned to face him, swinging the trolley around with you.

"Oh yeah? Then why are you here? Why aren't you at the Ministry, or something?"

His jaw is set, his green eyes blazing. "Because I wanted to see you."

You roll your eyes. "Pull the other one. Look, I'll see you at Christmas, or something."

"Ginny ..." He takes a step towards you.

"No, Harry!" you shriek. "No! Get out! Get out of here! This is my life, my work, my ... my ... just - keep out!"

He looks startled; but then he steps towards you all the same, his hands slightly raised in a placating gesture.

"No! You - don't - fucking - get it!" You grab the trolley and swing it round, crashing it into the wall at the last second.

Bottles smash; beetles' eyes fly everywhere; coloured liquid arcs through the air; the trolley careers off, down the corridor; and suddenly his hands are holding your flailing wrists up by your head; your kicking legs are being forced to walk backwards; he's slammed you up against the wall; his body's pressed up against yours; his lips have forced themselves onto yours -

His hot lips are violent, his stubble is grating. He groans and presses his whole body up against you, and you realise it's been three years - and yet you're kissing him back. Three years. There is something sticky and slightly damp between your faces, between your cheeks rubbing against each others - you realise that you must be crying.

Three years is a long time. When he plunges his dry tongue in and starts to thrust into your mouth, you bite it. Hard.

He pulls away; he drops you; he steps back, his hand at his jaw. "You stupid -"

"No, YOU stupid, jumped-up little -"

"Don't pretend you weren't enjoying it," he says, eyes flashing.

"What, so you think that now that the war's over you can swoop in and be a man, lurk around trying to be witty and throw me down on that trolley and -" You pause, trying to control yourself. "You dumped me, Harry! Quite a long time ago if I remember correctly -"

"Oh, wait, why did I do that again? Let's think -"

"There is not going out with someone," you say, your voice edging on hysteria, "and there is ignoring someone - ignoring a sixteen-year-old -"

"Because it was all so long ago! Jesus, Ginny, the war only lasted about five years - we're still kids!"

"No, Harry, I grew up! I got a job and I grew up! Not all of us can spend three years prancing around the world doing -"

"Prancing around the -?" He looks violent, and for the first time, you are frightened. His eyes grow cold. "God, you've changed."

You clench your fists to stop yourself from punching him. "So have you."

He smiles malevolently. "You'd be surprised."

"I've seen enough. I haven't become the kind of person who uses the murders I've committed for dramatic effect."

"No. You've become fucking uptight. I knew they shouldn't have let McGonagall be in charge of that school -"

"I am not uptight! I have a job to do - there's a difference!"

"Now you really do sound like Hermione," he smirks.

"I'll be sure to tell her how you talk about her behind her back," you snap. "Now, if you'll excuse me ..." You catch sight of the abandoned trolley, the shattered bottles lying all over the corridor floor, the potions dripping into puddles.

You grab your wand and start muttering charms, walking away from Harry as you repair bottles and flasks, trying to control your breathing as you vanish the potions congealing on the floor. You can make up most of these yourself, although some of them will take a few days to brew - oh, shit, that Strengthening Solution's needed for tomorrow morning, you'll have to go to the store cupboard and - and oh, God, that one's advanced, you might have to get Smethwyck to help with -

There are two warm hands on your hips.

You freeze.

Slowly, the hands start to move: up and down, they seem to explore, until they are stroking you in small, round, firm circles.

"Hmm ..." he mutters, alarmingly close to your ear. "Some things haven't changed."

You are paralysed.

His palms smooth slowly upwards over your ribs, fingers spreading out. "No, some things haven't changed at all."

"Harry -" you say, your voice breaking.

"She speaks," he whispers in your ear. You can just see his face out of the corner of your eye, but you daren't move your head.

He starts to mutter again. "Now, what did Ginny used to like?" His hands move up to brush the undersides of your breasts with his thumbs. "Oh, wait ..." His hands pause, and creep back down again. "She's changed - she's grown up." You can feel them settling on your hips once more. "She wants more grown up things now ..."

"Harry," you plead.

You feel his breath on your ear. "Walk over to that wall, Ginny ... we wouldn't want anyone to see us."

His hot breath on your neck, his hands stroking the sides of your body, you find yourself taking the steps towards the wall of the corridor. You glance back at the door, but his lips are hovering just a fraction from your ear, his body right up against your back. You stare at the peeling paint covering the wall, now right in front of you. You are terrified - more of yourself than of him - but you cannot stop to analyse the situation. If you stop to think, it will end. You rest your clenched fists on the wall, and release a shuddering breath.

His hands, triumphant, are smoothing down from the undersides of your breasts to the swell of your backside. "Ginny ..." he whispers softly against the back of your neck. Your nails cut into your palms. "She still -" his hands slowly press your hips forwards, until they jut into the wall, "- feels the same ... she still -" his wet tongue darts out and across the exposed skin of your neck, and you shiver "- tastes the same ..." He drags his lips along your shoulder and back up your neck to whisper soft words into your nape. "Now, what does she want me to do to her? She won't let me kiss her lips ... so where will she let me put my mouth?"

"Harry -"

He cuts you off with his hand, clamped firmly over your lips. Slowly, teasingly, he draws the bottom of your earlobe into his mouth, and sucks on it lightly, while snaking an arm around your waist. You tremble as his lips leave your ear and travel down your neck to your shoulder, where, without warning, he bites at your skin. Your back arches, your breasts brush the wall, and you would cry out if it wasn't for the fingers pressed into your lips.

"Wow, Ginny ..." he says, a laugh hidden in his voice. "No need to rub yourself up against the wall, you can use me for that."

You try to spin around, but he catches your hips again and presses your back up against him. You can feel him poking you in the back. "Go on, Ginny ..." he whispers. "Tell me what you'd like to do."

"Nothing," you choke out. "I don't - want -"

"Ah, now, see, that's where you're wrong," Harry whispers, pressing you up against the wall once more, firm hands travelling up your back and across your hips to make sure that you are obeying orders. "Now, I don't much like this ..." He fingers your green Mungo's robe around the collar. "Shall we get rid of it?"

"There are buttons - on the front," you blurt.

His hands reach around your body for the top button. "But, Ginny, I thought you were angry with me," he whispers. "I thought you'd grown up and gotten a job, too grown up for Harry Potter."

"I -" you attempt, but then his hands are brushing your breasts as he deliberately fumbles with your buttons, and speaking becomes difficult. "I - I am. There isn't any Harry Potter. Not any more."

"You're catching on," he mutters in your ear as he undoes the last of your buttons and slips his hand inside, squeezing one of the breasts covered by your plain, sensible white bra. Your eyes slide shut. "You were dumped by a little boy, Ginny. So can I be the one who throws you down on that trolley and -"

"No you bloody well can't -" you snap, wrenching him off of you and spinning around, only to have your wrists caught in his hands.

His green eyes meet yours, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose. For the first time, you notice a cut on his temple. He clenches his jaw, and you realise you've never seen him with stubble before.

"Harry -"

"I'm - not - Harry -" he grinds out, stepping towards you, eyes blazing. "And you're - no longer - Ginny -" He lets go of your wrists and suddenly his hands are on the sides of your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks, fingers tangling into your tightly coiled hair. Eyes flicking over your face, he whispers, "You're not the Ginny I used to know ... you're not the girl I remember."

"That's because I'm not sixteen anymore," you pant - why is it suddenly so hard to breathe?

"Fifteen, actually," he smirks, recovering himself, and then he shoves his lips up against yours.

Once again, your lips struggle: and this time, when he thrusts his tongue in, yours clashes with his strokes. He nibbles your lower lip, you bite down on his; in response, he growls in his throat and shoves you up against the wall again, one of his arms snaking around your waist, one slipping down the front of your open robes.

"You had -" he gasps, breaking away from your mouth and eyeing your breasts, "better bras when you were fifteen, Weasley. This one's so -" he drags his lips slowly up from your chin, across your cheekbone, and to your ear, "medical."

It is your turn to give a fierce growl: grabbing the back of his head you press your mouths together, wrap your leg around his thigh and push your chest into his. You'll show him medical doesn't equal uptight!

As your breasts crush themselves against his fingers, he groans; slipping his hand underneath a cup, he plucks at a nipple. Your pelvis jerks against his, and with his free hand he picks you up by the arse and slams you against the wall.

You moan, wrap your legs around his waist and start to grind against him. He squeezes your breast and sweeps his tongue along your neck briefly.

"Is this what you'd like to do, Gin?" he asks, a smug smile on his lips. "Like to have violent, angry sex up against a wall?"

And because there is nothing you'd rather do with this man, Harry Potter or not, naturally, you have to shake your head.

He raises his eyebrows. "No?"

"No," you bite out.

He digs his fingers into your breast and you gasp. "Oh, so you want me to throw you down on that trolley and then have violent, angry sex with you?" Keeping you pinned up against the wall, he trails his fingers down your stomach and his voice drops to a whisper. "Tell you I hate you and make you buck against my fingers? Tell you I despise you and slam you into the metal? Tell you I loathe you more than anyone else in the world and make you scream my -"

"Just do it," you gasp, and hoisting you up in his arms, he turns and carries you across the corridor, stepping over the scattered potion bottles to reach the silver trolley. Dropping you down unceremoniously, he clambers up on top of it, crawling forwards to loom over you predatorily.

"Now, we'll need to get rid of this thing," he says, hiking your green robes up to your waist as you wriggle between his legs. "And I'll need to untie your hair -"

For what purpose he doesn't explain, but he slides his hand into your partially-coiled hair and pulls at it, attempting to loosen it. You tilt your head upwards, and taking his cue, he leans down and kisses you again, firm lips pressing into yours, tongue just starting to probe into your mouth. One of his hands is still fisted tightly into your hair, while the other props his body up, refusing to let himself go to you completely. You shove his black robes upwards and scrabble for his waist - in an effort to bring him closer to you, you slide your hands down the back of his jeans and over his arse, digging your fingers in. Some kind of strangled moan travels from his throat to yours, and his body falls forwards, almost crushing you; and then the hand he was using to prop himself up is suddenly frantically trying to unbutton your trousers. Freeing the button, he plunges his fingers down into your knickers -

"Weasley? Are you ... oh good God."

You freeze.

"Weasley?" questions the voice in disbelief.

You shoot up like a curse; shoving Harry off of you, you twist around. There at the door from Corridor 4 is Margaret, a middle-aged woman with slightly severe features, wearing robes identical to yours and her brown hair in a bun. Your superior.

"Weasley." Margaret purses her lips.

"I -" you stutter.

"You are on night patrol for this floor?" Margaret asks, her eyes taking in the scene in front of her.

"I - yes -" You shove Harry off of you again and jump down from the trolley, letting your robes fall down over your unbuttoned jeans. "Yes - but Margaret - I didn't mean - it just happened -"

"You are the only one patrolling this floor," says Margaret coldly.

"I am so - so sorry," you say, frantically trying to button your robes up over your bra. "I am so -"

"My office. Now."

"Margaret, please!" you cry. "It was a one-time - he's just a -"

"Friend?" puts in Harry, sliding off the trolley casually.

You turn to him, fists clenched at your sides. "Go."

"Such a harsh dismissal," he grins, eyes mocking you.

"Get out. Now."

"Aww, come on Gin, maybe I can help -"

"Just leave, Harry!" you cry, turning away from him.

"Are you sure I can't -"

"Get -"

"This is Harry Potter?"

You both turn to look at Margaret.

"Er - yes," you say, nonplussed.

"Oh. Oh," says Margaret, looking slightly confused.

Harry puts his hands in his pockets saunters towards the door leading to Corridor 4, and the stairs. A few feet away from it, he turns back round to face you. "I'll see you around, Gin, yeah?"

You turn away from him. "Please leave, Harry."

There is a pause.

You look back up to see him shifting his feet, an unreadable expression on his face. Margaret is doing a very good impression of someone still in control of a situation that is slipping quickly from her grasp.

He suddenly lets out a huff of air. "I was telling the truth, you know," he says quietly, staring over your shoulder.

"About what?"

"About him."

Your eyes hold his, and despite it all, you realise you are not breathing. "He's dead?"

"Yes."

You don't know what to say. "It's over?"

"For some of us."

Margaret's eyes are flicking between the two of you. To think that this is how it would end, you, Harry and Margaret, in a corridor lit with 'evening-style glow', makes you feel sick. It's wrong; rotten from the inside out.

"You need to go to the Ministry," you say, repeating your earlier statement, and looking away from him. You feel mutinous tendrils of hair breaking free from what was once a bun and brushing your face. He should be at the Ministry; it should have been the first place he went to - where they all should have gone to, surely Hermione ...

Your stomach plummets.

"Harry - what about Ron and Hermione?"

He looks at you with tired eyes.

"Did they ..." You fight for the words, your stomach in knots as it struggles up your throat. "Are they ..."

"They're fine." He raises his hand to his eyes and, sliding it under his glasses, rubs at them. "Fine. Probably wondering where I am, actually."

As you try to regain control of your breathing and stop the sudden onslaught of rage at his stupid, stupid inconsiderateness pounding in your ears, Margaret speaks. "Are you saying that You-Know-Who is dead?"

"Yes," says Harry.

"Does that mean -"

But she is cut off. The pounding in your head is suddenly echoed in the next corridor, and the door bursts open and two Trainee Healers spill into the hallway. "Margaret," gasps Rebecca, "it's the Ministry, they've just sent word - they say there's a load of bodies coming - I dunno - they're kicking up a fuss, something funny's going on."

"A bunch of Death Eaters, they're saying," pipes up a curly-haired boy barely old enough to be out of Hogwarts.

"Rob wants us all down in the foyer, with a Healer left on every other floor -"

"But," interrupts Margaret, her expression frantic, "but that's ... where's Lynn?"

"Sick - remember the curse she got to her chest? Rob's tearing his hair out, we're completely understaffed tonight -"

"But they're saying ..." the boy interrupts, his eyes wide. "That the war could be ending."

You see Harry stifle a smirk.

"Don't listen to gossip," snaps Margaret. "Get to the foyer, I need to speak to Weasley, and then -"

"We need to get some more Petrificare Stretchers from Spell Damage - we were sent up here for them, as well as to tell you, and then ..."

"What did you do, leave Ron and Hermione to deal with it by themselves?" you snap at Harry over the hubbub in the doorway.

He leans back against the wall, folding his arms. "Well, that's the last time you'll be getting one of my little visits."

"I can barely contain my disappointment -"

"That's not what you were saying five -"

"Is that Harry Potter?"

"'Course it is - what's he doing here?"

Thrown off, Harry glances at the Trainee Healers.

"Yes, Harry," you say sweetly. "What are you doing here?"

"Fine," he spits, turning back to face you, eyes blazing again. "Fine, I'll talk to Scrimgeour, I'll be in the papers, I'll get my medal, I'll make sure Ron gets a nice fat cash reward and Hermione gets to go back to school and be Head Girl - that make you happy, Gin?"

"Don't - call - me - Gin."

You stare at each other. The Trainee Healers gawp, trying to work out what's going on, and once again you are struck with the feeling that this is not how it should be ending. You desperately want to get rid of all these people - but, at the same time, there is a looming crisis in your foyer which you need to turn your attention to.

"Do you think the war's ending?" Rebecca whispers to the boy next to her. It rings through the corridor.

Harry meets your eyes. "I should get to the Ministry," he says quietly.

"But ..." you start. You don't know why, or what, you are protesting.

He walks towards the door and the Healers edge backwards.

"Harry ..." you try again.

He shoves his hand back into his pockets. "I'm going. I have to, don't I? I do have some responsibilities," he mutters.

He turns to leave, and the two Healers at the door break apart and step to the sides.

"Harry - wait!" you cry.

He freezes, and then slowly turns to face you. Once more, his expression is blank.

"Harry ... I ..."

"Ginny." Suddenly, unexpectedly, his face is full of something. Something that you shouldn't be hoping for.

You still don't know what to say.

"Ginny ..." His face is still full of that something. Your heart twists frantically in its ribcage. "I have to go."

You nod, and with one last, shadowed look at you, he turns and walks through the door and down the corridor.

You wait until you hear the door to the stairway bang.

You take a deep breath and try not to worry - about him or the state of your job. You may not have ever wished for it, but this job has given you a lot over the last year and a half, and you don't want to lose it - not like this, anyway - and not when you've come so far.


And he's gone, but it doesn't really matter.

The two of you have different jobs to do - and you know what yours is. You are a Trainee Healer, and you do not stand around thinking about your own life or how the war is ending all completely wrong when there are dying people being sent in. Death Eaters or otherwise.

You know what you have to do. You can feel your grip loosening on your childish - no, adolescent - desire to follow him and tightening and starting to focus on what you have spent your adult life doing. Harry said it himself - grown-ups have responsibilities.

You turn to Margaret, and wonder if the end of the war is sufficient distraction to make her forget that she just caught her favourite Trainee Healer going at it (or trying to) on top of a trolley in Corridor 14.

"So, er, Margaret, should we, um ... leave it until ..."

"Everyone, down to the foyer!" the older woman snapped sharply, causing all three of them to jump. "We have a crisis on our hands, in case you've forgotten!"

You hasten to follow the others. "Not you, Weasley."

You turn to look at Margaret. She is regarding you with what you would call a cold expression if you hadn't worked with her for eighteen months. As it is, you will have to call it unreadable.

"Um, Margaret, we need the stretchers ..." begins Rebecca, flicking her eyes fearfully between you and her boss.

"William can get them," Margaret snaps - so that's the name of the curly-haired boy, you think, faintly ridiculously - "he's old enough to open a store cupboard by himself."

Rebecca and William make a run for it.

"Weasley."

"Margaret, surely this can wait, we really need to -"

"Go after him."

"What?"

"Go after him. Go to the Ministry. See the end of this."

You think your heart may have just exploded. "No, I can't -"

"Do it."

"No! There's a - I'm needed -"

Don't give me the choice, you think frantically. Please, please just stop and tell me to go downstairs.

"Go after him," she says firmly.

"Margaret -"

"I think that you deserve - anyway, I need a spy. That's an order, Weasley."

"Margaret," you plead weakly.

"GO!" she shouts, making you jump. "Quickly! And I want a full report when you get back! MOVE!"

You stumble to the door.

Hand on the handle, you look down the hall to see the staircase which leads to the foyer. You turn and look back down Corridor 14, at the array of broken glass all over the floor, at the shimmering puddles of mildly dangerous potions, at the metal trolley by the wall, looking oddly bereft.

You look at Margaret.

"Weasley - I am not going to tell you again!"

Hesitantly, you take a couple more stumbling steps forward.

You stop, and gather your robes around your knees.

You take another deep breath. Then you break into a run.

::

Author's Notes: The "Orsino Thruston Ward" is mentioned at the beginning: Orsino Thruston is the drummer in The Weird Sisters. Count Orsino is also the character in Twelfth Night who said "If music be the food of love, play on." Thank you, Lexicon.

A continuation was written to this was written by the sublime pumpkinpasty, here. [http://pumpkin-fics.livejournal.com/4240.html]