Gaslight Part 2--Tom/Ginny

[black_hat]

Title: Gaslight

Part 2...

 

Ginny reached lazily for her wand and paused as her hands met empty space on the dresser. She cracked an eye open and saw that her wand was gone.

 

She patted the table twice to make sure her senses were not betraying her. Then the shock of the room being different flew through her like dart.

 

“Harry!”

 

“No need to yell. I’m right here,” he said. He wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her closer. She relaxed against the warmth of his presence and felt his hands brush up against her breasts. “How did you sleep?”

 

“Great,” she admitted. “I made it through the whole night. I guess…I agreed to the Hogwarts thing.” She pulled up the heavy, red covers and fought back the feeling of confusion that ate at the edge of her peace like mice nibbling at cheese in a mousetrap.

 

“It’s weird waking up in a new place even though it’s familiar,” he muttered. “I nearly jumped out of bed, ready to take on my captors one by one. The poor house-elf getting the towels will probably need therapy now.”

 

 His hair was a complete mess, and she ruffled it about further. “You know, this was a good idea. When did I dose off, though?”

 

She snuggled into the covers, thinking. It was similar to listening to a deep storm outside while reading a captivating book, and she was quite happy with the situation.

 

“During the carriage ride. Did you know that you talk in your sleep?”

 

She blushed. “Er…”

 

“And I carried you up the stairs myself.” He kissed her forehead.

 

“What did I say?” she inquired, placing her chin on his chest and biting her lip suggestively.

 

“Oh, it was just a list of your many, secret lovers. Some names I recognized.”

 

“Like who?”

 

“Luna Lovegood, for one.”

 

“Harry!” she yelped, burying her face into her pillow.

 

“It’s more than a little awkward when your secret lover is my secret lover. I barely made it up the stairs with my new found knowledge.”

 

“You’re horrible.”

 

“I know. So what are we to do today? Any requests?”

 

“Hmm…how about a walk around the lake?” she suggested. “We haven’t done that in ages.”

 

“I love it when your eyes light up,” he said, and she was quite thankful that she had brought up the covers around her face. She was sure he could feel the heat from her body, now, as well as her heartbeat. “And then, my lady?”

 

“Let’s be spontaneous.”

 

“In other words, you have no idea what we are going to do today.”

 

“Like you do.”

 

“As a matter of fact, I have a surprise for you. Close your eyes.” She did so, holding out her hands and halfway expecting that necklace she had been dropping hints for over the past two months. She had expected a lot of things. 

 

Oh God. You have got to be kidding me, she thought numbly. In her hands was an exact replica of Tom’s diary. The cover, the pages, the age, and even the curls around the corner of the book were the exact-fucking-same as before.

 

“Can you believe that old store is still there? I managed to convince the guy to let me into the back and-.”

 

He went on and on, proud of his accomplishment. All she could picture was that her husband digging—touching—the same books as Tom did years ago, contemplating each book while looking for the perfect match, and…

 

Ginny dropped the book in her lap.

 

“Why?” she asked, aware that her voice was shaking.

 

“I thought you could write in it. Only this time, it would be different.”

 

No shit, Sherlock, she thought through the haze of her rising temper. “Your thoughts would your own. Consider it closure.”

 

“Oh, I’ll be keeping it closed, all right,” Ginny said, pushing the vile thing off the bed and onto the floor.

 

“Um, this was your suggestion, Gin,” Harry said, giving her a confused look. “Am I missing something?”

 

“My suggestion? Are you completely off your nut?” If Harry thought this up himself, he had all the sensitivity—as well as intelligence—of the blunt ax that had blotched Sir Nick’s execution. “Or are you trying to drive me away?”

 

“Y-you mentioned it while we were packing,” Harry stuttered, turning pale.  “’Harry, you know what would make this perfect? If I had his little book to scribble in on our holiday…”

 

Her mind wavered, trying to find a foundation to stand on. All she found was a deep, silent haze.

 

“I didn’t mean for you to take me literally,” she said instead. Out of all the patchwork of her memory, she chose the prettiest—and the simplest—pattern.

 

“Well, I did,” he said. “God help me, I did. I’ll return it right away.” He got out of the bed sullenly, reaching for his glasses.

 

“You still need your glasses?” she whispered.

 

“You know that I’m blind without these,” he snapped.

 

“There’s no need to return it, Harry,” she said, trying to smile. “I’m sorry. Don’t be angry.”

 

“Talk about mixed signals.”

 

“I was just…I was still half-asleep.”

 

“All right, then. Well, since we are off to such a great start, I’ll go ahead and ruin the other surprise. Your brothers are coming to play Quidditch on the old field. Is that okay, or does that count as trying to drive you away?”

 

“That’s okay, Harry.”

 

“Just ‘okay’. I see.”

 

He got up and began to dress, not looking at her. 

“It’s great, Harry. I mean it.”

 

“I’ll owl them. They really shouldn’t bother.”

 

He left her without their walk and with Ginny trying to pick up the pieces. So she dressed after him and placed the book in her pocket. She wasn’t letting it out of her sight, and it was better on her person than alone and a needle at the back of her mind. She had to apologize to Harry about her behavior. The Healer had said it was easy for her to think that others were being hostile. Those who had survived a trauma usually saw the world through a narrow scope. The first step to recovery was to widen her narrow view and assume some credit for interaction that had been preciously out of her control.

 

Step by step.

 

“I’m sorry,” she began, walking into the Owlery to stop him from sending the letter. Then she stopped, her mouth falling open.

 

Harry wasn’t there. Neither were the owls. There wasn’t a single owl on the lofts or the window ledge. A chill passed over her as she realized she had no means of sending a letter.

 

“I know.”

 

She spun around, holding a hand to her heart. “Harry, you scared me.”

 

 “You’re always sorry. That’s how you get away with your attitude. It's your little safety net.” His face was similar to that of a stone idol, emotionless as if a switch had been turned off. “I wouldn’t try it again. I'll cut your line this time, Gin.”

 

He placed his hands on her shoulders in the attitude of a disappointed parent. “And it’s a long way down, you know.”

 

“I-,” She bit her tongue. “I would love to play Quidditch today.”

 

He tilted his head. “Really? It would be just the two of us.”

 

“But I know Ron would-.”

 

 “He would if he could read minds over a long distance. As you can see, there are no owls here, and I loaned Hedwig to Percy.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“You have that look on your face again. Did you have another blackout?” Now he was concerned, and held her closer.

 

“No,” she said, shivering for effect. “I’m just cold and a little hungry.”

 

“I can make you your favorite breakfast.” He putted his arm around her shoulder and pinned her to him. “I’m used to cooking for people.”

 

“Yeah,” Ginny said. She remembered what the Healer said about trust. With her own mind damaged during her imprisonment, she had to give her full trust to her husband and her friends. But that was very hard especially when all her trust stemmed from guilt alone.

 

“And we should talk about it.”

 

“I don’t want to.”

 

“The Healer suggested it,” Harry pointed out. “As soon as you come to terms with what happened, you’ll get better.”

 

Ginny nodded and began the ritual, telling Harry all about what Lestrange had put her through in his dungeon. About how she had cried for him and how it had hurt. It was like reading some lines for a play.

 

And she was suddenly in bed again, and it was night time. Harry’s hands were running down her thighs. Or rather his hands were everywhere, and he was kissing her. She couldn’t ask how and when and why, and she was glad she couldn’t. So she kissed him back for the sake of normalcy because this was what a husband and wife did.

 

Her hands hurt, though.

 

“I didn’t mean to hit the Quaffle so hard,” he whispered.

 

“It’s all right,” she said.

 

“I hope the marks on your legs heal. That was a right nasty fall.”

 

“I’m sure they will,” she said, digging her fingers into the covers.

 

“Tomorrow, we’ll do something a little more productive.”

 

She heard the hissing in the walls but ignored it because Harry didn’t bat an eye. She had an active imagination after all. She ignored the feeling of things, cold and dry, wrapping themselves around her legs. She ignored the voices that came underneath the hissing.

 

Really, Harry was probably very tired, so she would be very quiet.

 

“The pipes are really getting old, didn’t you notice?”

 

“Because of the sound?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I noticed,” she said. Her robes had been torn to shreds and covered with something heavy and dark. It must have been a terrible fall. She must have scared Harry to death, and she withered in guilt. She remembered. She had fallen…her hands had weakened under the strain. She just slipped.

 

She had fallen a long way with the wind roaring alongside of her, and he had swooped down and grabbed her arm. Couldn’t stop her from hitting the ground but he had saved her life. Again. She reached for his hand in the darkness and squeezed it lightly.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“I know.”