Rows

One Hundred and Sixty Eight

One hundred and sixty eight hours. Seven days. One week exactly since Harry had left his friends at King's Cross, and already he was starting to crack.

The ride back had been hard enough: Luna reading, Ron and Hermione patrolling the corridors to make sure that there wasn't any trouble, and - Hermione admitted - consoling the younger children, who were crying each other sick.

Neville tried to talk, to start a game of chess, but Harry couldn't do it. His whole being was focused on holding himself back from apologizing to Ginny.

Ginny, who sat opposite him, staring out the window like some red-haired marble. Her face was free of emotion - of anger, in any case. But she would not speak with him, and he had thought he would go mad.

But she understood, Harry told himself for the six hundred and seventy second time. She had expected you to back away for her safety's sake. You don't need to apologize.

He was certain it was the right thing to do, giving up[Author ID1: at Thu Mar 2 12:29:00 2006 ] his best source of comfort. And she had agreed.

Then why was it so bloody hard? He had meant to use these last days at Privet Drive to come to some kind of understanding with the Dursleys. He didn't want to hate them any more. He had also meant to read up on Curse Breaking and dealing with magical objects.

Instead, Harry had spent every waking moment (and, he suspected, many of his sleeping moments as well) fighting the urge to send Hedwig to her with a long letter retracting the whole bloody thing and begging her to take him back, to come with him. To look at him again with that look that made him feel that he could and would do anything, so long as she was happy.

But in order for her to be happy, she needed to be alive, she needed to be safe. And sending her owls, kissing her, flinging himself at her feet - these things definitely would not keep her safe.

From her cage by his desk, Hedwig hooted. Her expression carried the message perfectly: "Send her a mouse, idiot fledgling, and get it over with."

He threw himself down in a miserable heap on his bed. Another one hundred and sixty eight hours and the wedding would be over. He would be of age, and ready to go Horcrux hunting. He had thought that the worst part would be having to protect her feelings while he was at the wedding, but he'd realized days ago that the feelings that were going to be in turmoil would be his own.

He wasn't even sure if he could make it another week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty eight hours.

Her face, blazing. Her small, smooth lips against his own dry ones. Against his throat. With a groan, he picked up one of the tomes that Hermione had 'borrowed' for him from the Restricted Section and buried his head underneath it.

Ron had owled once--asking what had happened with Ginny, and did Harry think maybe it would be okay if Ron asked Hermione out on a date? A date. What was interesting was that the twit hadn't bothered to ask whether Harry thought Hermione would mind. Which Harry was sure she wouldn't.

Hermione had called three times, once to ask how Harry was, and twice to tell him, very firmly, that he needed to send Ginny an owl and Talk Some Things Out. Oh, and would Harry mind much if perhaps she and Ron possibly began to see a little more of each other, if that wasn't a problem? Which it wasn't.

Harry flung the book off of his head. He could see how this search for the Horcruxes was going to go: Harry miserably thinking about Ginny, and Ron and Hermione madly trying to find dark corners to snog in. Brilliant.

There was a quiet knock on his door. With a sigh, Harry got up. In point of fact, Aunt Petunia had been a totally different woman since Harry's return. She had talked to him about his mother, had shown him the letter that Dumbledore had left all those years ago, along with the blanket that he had been swaddled in. She had cried when she found out that Dumbledore had died. Expecting that she must have come to call him down to lunch, Harry opened the door.

It wasn't Harry's aunt. It was Ginny.

She looked awful. "Hello, Harry," she said, her eyes locked on his chest. Her face was pale and she was wearing a threadbare jumper that Harry realized with a start was one of his castoffs. The green made her hair blaze all the more fiercely.

"G-ginny," he said, somehow surprised though he had thought of nothing else but her for a whole week. One hundred and sixty eight hours. "W-what?..."

Her eyes flicked up and bore into his, and a creature clawed inside of Harry--not the cold, scaly one that he had fought down while watching her with Dean, nor the flaming, roaring one that possessed him when she was in his arms. This one was desperate, and feathered, and felt like something that Harry could not control. Ginny swallowed and spoke. "I couldn't do it, Harry. I couldn't wait."

And like a prisoner embracing his fate, Harry threw his arms around Ginny, wordlessly unsaying all that he had said, welcoming the eternity that was theirs.

Not matter how few the hours.

***

Hedwig watched as her boy and his mate preened and courted there on his nest. She was pleased with Ginevra Molly (Ginny) Weasley of the Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole, Devonshire. The hawk-plumed girl had seen what needed to be done and had done it. She'd even given Hedwig's boy the nips that he so richly deserved for his idiocy.

Hedwig's boy did not seem to mind.

They would be nesting together soon. In fact, Hedwig realized as she watched their mutual preening progress rather further than she had ever seen it do, if they continued they might be nesting rather too soon. She gave a warning hoot. The couple broke apart and laughed.

Time for nesting later, when things were more secure. When the serpents had been slain and the nest could be kept safe.

Her boy and his mate would have pretty nestlings, Hedwig thought. She fluffed herself contentedly as she watched them return to their preening.